Shame, Guilt, Absolution
by nend0roidgal
Summary: After losing Juliette, Nick shows up on Monroe's doorstep looking for love, resulting in a whirlwind of misunderstandings between the two after a drunken one-night stand. Can they move past that night and find their way back to each other before they self-destruct? Can they learn to forgive themselves in the process? Monroe/Nick. Warning: Spoilers for S1, Language, Adult Themes
1. SHAME

Title: Shame, Guilt, Absolution

Author: nend0roidgal

Series: Grimm (NBC)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance (Slash) Monroe/Nick

Rating: T, eventually M

Warnings: Spoilers for Season 1, Coarse Language, Adult Themes/Situations, Slash

Disclaimer: Don't own; no profit gained (other than the usual artistic and creative fulfillment)

NOTE: This was started BEFORE Season 2 began, certain aspects of the story are no longer in line with canon (considering it's a romance between Nick and Monroe, obviously it's not in line with canon, lol, but still..!) So please disregard Season 2 while you read this.

* * *

CHAPTER 1: Shame I

Nick blinked several times, his vision fighting against the bleary half-light in the pre-dawn lit room. His tongue flickered briefly across his furry teeth and swallowed hard against the heavy tang of alcohol and sweat and salty unpleasantness. It didn't take more than a few moments for his mind to wake and clear and recall every shared moment from the night before.

Head rolling to the side, he found Monroe as he knew he would: bare-chested, on his back with eyes focused upon the ceiling. Even in the gray morning light of the older man's bedroom, he could see that they were rimmed with sleeplessness and perhaps even tinted with horror at what they had done.

Naked, sickened and ashamed, Nick shifted onto his shoulder, his entire body longing to curl away from what he'd fashioned under the guise of their friendly affection.

He'd been drunk, but he'd known exactly what he was doing when he forced his being to meld with Monroe's hard one. He'd wanted every moment, every press and feel; yet it hadn't been mutual. Not completely. Even in the heat of the moment, Nick had known what was real and how this thing he ached so keenly for, how it didn't exist in this world. Even so, fully aware, he let himself fall victim to his own lust, choosing to ignore his conscience and Monroe's hesitance, allowing himself to destroy the one precious thing left in the laughable hull of his former life.

Perhaps it was guilt or some misplaced feeling of debt which forced Monroe to give in to Nick's drunken whims, regardless of the cost. Allowing hands to tug and pull, lips to kiss and wrap around flesh. Somewhere Nick thought he remembered Monroe crying, no doubt in realization of what the morning would mean.

Now with the buffer of alcohol gone, there was nothing to dull the feelings of sorrow.

"Should we… talk about it?"

Nick shuddered at the sound of his friend's broken whisper, realizing he'd been the one to break it.

"No."

The other man didn't argue. There were no snide comments; no biting remarks. Just silence. Silence and the muted trembling of the bed.

Curling further into darkness, away from another problem he'd caused and couldn't begin to repair, Nick allowed himself a few tears of his own.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Just to be clear, Nick did NOT rape Monroe. I did my best to word it clearly enough without being too graphically specific (the first run through would have possibly warranted an M rating to be safe).

Originally this was only going to be a 2 part one-shot (hence the vagueness). I hope if you've read this first chapter, you will be interested in reading more. Thank you for reading. :)


	2. GUILT

A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.

* * *

CHAPTER 2: Guilt I

Gray, the first color his mind registered. Everywhere it seeped like a film across his eyes. Downstairs he could hear the heavy hum of snow screaming its way across the television screen and against his chest the cold pinch of sweat. Monroe stared, his eyes burnt raw and his body numb, at the ceiling above his head, sickened with horror at the monster in the bed.

_Bad Blood. _He'd let the beast take over - take his place and tear, unfeeling, into Nick's emotionally exhausted flesh. He'd let it devour Nick's fluttering heart in a single snap of its jaws. Nick's blood had coursed freely: sweet as his smile and bitter as his tormented soul, dripping slowly down the beast's jowls, coating his teeth in its viscous warmth.

The night before Nick had shown up at his door looking no better than a discarded version of himself. The pain in his eyes palatable, round with sadness, begging for someone to want him. Monroe wouldn't reject him, this Nick had already known, it's what he had always known from the moment they had become friends. Monroe wouldn't say no to him, no matter the cost. They had established this habit long ago.

Monroe had welcomed Nick in with no more words than a murmured, "Oh, Nick… I'm so sorry."

Nick had nodded his head, accepting Monroe's words but not really hearing them. Under his arm he carried a case of shit beer and a mixture of half-emptied bottles of booze. Monroe realized then that they would not be passing the night with words.

He watched over the next several hours as Nick drunk himself sick, deadening himself to all moral constraints and higher conscience. He watched as Nick danced by himself to music only he could hear, singing the words to some mournful song with no lyrics, tripping over his feet and hoping for the world there was someone to catch him and drag him back up.

Naïve of his own baser intentions, Monroe had allowed himself to drink and indulge in Nick's miserable gaze filled with longing and anguish, letting his mind slip to his own frustrations all too easily. Oh how it felt to be wanted… Was he this conceited to forget his own friend's pain so quickly? This despicable and desperate to so readily misuse another for his own selfish ends? Did he loathe the world who rejected him this much to take it out on the only one who didn't?

Sitting back like some kind of sick mock king on his throne of cheap fibers, he watched with dark eyes as his friend dragged himself on all fours across the floor for a moment of validation with another living, beating heart tied to a warm body. A shred of reason to keep existing when things were so fucked to hell.

And he'd seen it. The loneliness swallowing Nick's eyes, his spirit dark with despair, unable to deal with the mental and emotional departure of Juliette. Aching for another body to press against his own, just to know he wasn't abandoned like garbage in the gutter, that he was worth more to the world than just a piece of trash.

Monroe wasn't immune to that moment of pity that pervaded his heart, but all too quickly it was overcome by the swell of his own excitement for his own moment of validation.

How could he use it? How could he taint and twist such a innocuous desire for love? A yearning to belong somewhere to someone for even just a moment?

He loved Nick - _oh, god, he loved Nick_. He truly did. He would do so much for the man without hesitation; would even die for Nick if it came down to it. How could he not after everything they'd done for each other? After everything they'd been through? But it didn't justify what he'd done. Not when his feelings for Nick weren't the same. Not deep and pure, unmoved by perversion.

Not even the alcohol could blind Monroe to the immorality of his actions. He had watched, fully aware, as Nick's flushed face bobbed in and out of view, his eyes already gone. The grip of his own fingers at the base of Nick's neck, threading through his soft, beautiful dark hair. In that moment, he had gained nothing by his years of asceticism. He was no better than the beast of his youth, the one he sought eternally to suppress and overcome.

He knew then that he should have been satisfied with just Nick's blushing red lips; he should have stopped. But he didn't. No, so quick he was to lead Nick upstairs, knowing full-well what he was doing. Knowing Nick would do anything to feel needed and wanted by someone again.

Upstairs, in his bedroom, he'd hesitated briefly over Nick's open, vulnerable body, aware he was about to break the man. Unable to bear to look into those trusting eyes he was so cruelly misleading, he'd forced Nick's head down, hard against the mattress. But to where could he have been misleading Nick? There were no kisses, no fancies of romance, not a single moment of care taken to reassure Nick of his worth. Disturbed by his desire to dominate his natural enemy when Nick had never been one and spurred on by his own dark lust and primal need to rip and tear and devour human flesh, he took Nick in a flurry of pain and uncontrollable fervor. It was all just physical gratification at the expense of Nick's heart to him. That's all it was and it was everything Monroe took. Over and over again until the wolf was satisfied.

No, not the wolf.

The wolf wasn't some removed entity; the wolf was him. He was the wolf. The wolf, the violent, sadistic part of his own being. The part of himself he was too ashamed to look in the eye. The part of himself he'd allowed full, unchecked reign of his senses long enough to steal from Nick his remaining security and from himself the last beautiful aspect of his monotonously dark life.

When everything had been said and done, Monroe knew he had been unforgivable. Devastated, he'd pulled back from the crumpled heap of Nick's broken body, crying out in sorrow as reality finally overwhelmed his heart - as the full scope of his actions settled like barbs in his chest. He'd wept because he had failed his closest friend; the one man he vowed to protect with everything he had when Nick would have, already had, done the same. Thick, hot tears escaped down his face as he mourned the death of their friendship. Nick hadn't made a sound at Monroe's remorse, instead with body trembling in what could only be pain and terror, he had curled away like a broken doll towards the edge of the bed, curling tighter in on himself as though willing a different end for the night.

Even as he'd cried, his nose and throat quickly filling with emotion, Monroe could detect his own heavy scent despite the painfully artificial smell of latex. As for Nick, his was unimpeded and awash across the sheets. He allowed himself an ounce of reprieve that perhaps at the very least Nick had derived some measure of satisfaction at the coarse meeting of their bodies.

Even still, it didn't cure the pain - didn't right the scales.

Even now, as he lay there, Nick's smell was there, forever synonymous with his own guilt. It would haunt him for months, deeply imbedded into the mattress fibers as it was now. Only fire could burn away that heavy smell.

Blood, the blood, it was there too.

Coupled with Nick's body as he had been then, he'd smelled the prick and wash of blood, driving the ravenous beast to move with even more enthusiasm despite Nick's sharp cries. No longer did it rile, now it just sickened him like the overly sweet, cloying scent of rotting perfume. And here it still was, choking him, forever reminding him of a moment he couldn't undo.

Several hours had passed since his betrayal of the other man, Nick's unconsciousness his only comfort. One more moment for Monroe to pretend nothing had happened. The imminent moment of betrayal in Nick's eyes when the morning broke. The complete annihilation of their friendship. When the new Nick roused, it would be no more than a stranger to him. He would be different, damaged even more by circumstance. Did Nick have anyone left to trust? Would he allow himself that luxury again?

But as fate had little love for Monroe, dawn finally broke.

Next to him, Nick stirred; after a moment, he could feel Nick's eyes on him. The younger man remained silent, cool. Monroe couldn't turn his head, couldn't look, couldn't face those tortured ashen eyes. Numb, black and as feral as the beast who had formed them that way.

He felt the sheets shift under him; even still, he couldn't look.

"Should we… talk about it?" Monroe choked out in a half-formed whisper, too disgusted with himself to even want to hear his own voice in the silence.

"No."

Cold, dismissive; Monroe realized then that they would never acknowledge this again. They would never climb the wall between them or wade the gap; instead they would hide this night deep in the valley of buried memory, unsuccessful because they could never forget. Though he longed to bury the night just as much as Nick did, with it was his only chance for release from his guilt. He could never apologize for what he'd done to Nick if they refused to allow this moment to ever have existed.

Monroe's eyes burned as tears sought to surface; his heart aching as he longed to curl around Nick and protect him from all the ills of the world. But he knew then that he never could. Never again. Not when Nick slipped further and further from him, physically and emotionally. Not when he'd killed his Nick, leaving this broken imposter behind. Looking down at the corpse of their friendship, smelling the stench of decay, Monroe broke in two.

* * *

A/N: What really happened? Alcohol and guilt are funny things, the way they mess with your memory and your perception of things. All will be explained in time (supposedly, lol) The language will delve further away from the poetic to more realistic as the effect of alcohol wanes; so if it had been trying to read it this way, you're in luck! : )

Thank you for continuing you read.


	3. Guilt II

A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.

* * *

CHAPTER 3: Guilt II

Several minutes passed in verbal silence between the two men. Finally reaching his breaking point, Nick pressed his body to move despite its desire to never do so again. It was too difficult for Nick to tolerate Monroe's broken sobbing any longer. It grated, coarse, against his nerves and his already guilty conscience. Drawing himself up, he sat momentarily on the edge of the bed and rubbed a palm against his sore eyes. His own tears had dried shortly before leaving them sticky and dry. Whatever remained of his own misery only worked to further disorient him; his vision was already bleary from the haze of alcohol still lingering in his bloodstream and the steady pounding in his head.

God, he felt like shit, and Monroe's crying wasn't helping.

He stood and skimmed the room quietly in the dim light of the breaking sun in search of what scattered clothing he could find. Despite the care he took in bending to gather what he managed to depict from the gray, his lower back screamed in agony every time, loudly protesting each movement. The pain just under his tailbone reminded him of the time he'd fallen off a horse as a kid and cracked his pelvic bone. He hadn't cried, just remained there, flat on his back as the breath slowly fought its way back into his lungs and the horrified cries of his mother filled his ears. What plagued him now was only muscular and would heal much sooner. Even still, it felt like he'd been kicked in the spine.

His left arm felt no better; he could already see the purpling of a bruise forming from where he'd bitten himself the night before to keep from crying out miserably. It had helped some, but he'd still sounded like a sniveling mess of a man still nursing a broken heart. No wonder Monroe hadn't kissed him, even as just an indulgence; he'd only get a taste of snot and booze and semen on his lips. Not even the blutbad's kindness could conceal the bitter taste of the night.

As Nick slipped on his recovered clothing, he knew it would be impossible for him, as mentally scattered as he was, to find every discarded article. Somewhere in the room hid his favorite green collared-shirt. For now he'd make due with his plain white t-shirt and jeans. He supposed whenever Monroe was feeling better about the whole mess, he would give it back, washed no less in that warm, lavender and mint laundry soap he prized so heavily - the very scent that always seemed to follow the older man around.

With a heavy sigh, Nick took one last regretful look at Monroe's back, now turned away from him, before he slipped silently through the bedroom door. He stumbled his way down the stairs, stopping to rest on the bottom stoop with his head against the railing. All he wanted was to make it home in one piece without his legs collapsing, was that too much to ask?

He clutched his head in his hands as he stifled the desire to suddenly cry in frustrated anguish. There was no merit in losing it now, he reminded himself. It wouldn't gain him anything. With that thought in mind, he willed himself to stand and shuffle through the living room to pick up the remnants of the night before; every empty can of beer and bottle a reminder of his poor choices recently. There was no reason for Nick to make things any worse for himself by leaving them for Monroe to find. It seemed too cruel to make the older man clean up the mess of Nick's despair. He carried as many of the cans and bottles as he could to the kitchen sink and quickly washed out the bottoms before slipping them as quietly as he could into the recycling. Whatever liquor was left in the bottom of the bottles he flushed down the sink, knowing he would not be wanting it anytime in the near future.

Still feeling a tendency for guilt, he tidied the downstairs a bit before he let himself out the front door, the latch catching quietly. He couldn't hear Monroe anymore, maybe he'd fallen asleep. Nick hoped so at the very least. Maybe by the afternoon or the next morning, Monroe would feel better and give him a call and be willing to forgive Nick his impulsiveness and his thoughtless behavior. Maybe Nick could take him out to dinner and a movie… no, that sounded too much like a date. If Monroe was horrified with the notion of Nick suddenly wanting a romantic relationship, which wasn't something he was necessarily planning on, something like that wouldn't help. He'd just make dinner and rent something, maybe even break down and get that gift basket Monroe had stopped hinting at. Maybe some wine and some fancy German candies or some gift certificates to places Nick had no idea if the blutbad even liked. Whatever it took to get back on Monroe's good side, Nick would do it because the blutbad was probably the best friend Nick had ever had and he wasn't willing to lose that. He'd already jeopardized it once by seeking sexual comfort from the man, something he'd apparently so insanely misread, it was mortifying. He had a sneaking suspicion Monroe's willingness to indulge his whims derived from that night in the Lowën pit. It irked Nick that Monroe would feel like he couldn't say no to him because he had saved his life, all the while completely disregarding the fact that he was only in the situation in the first place _because _of Nick. The next time they talked, Nick would be sure to set that record straight once and for all.

He just hoped there was something he _could _do to make things right again. He wouldn't know what he'd do if things turned sour between them.

Shoes under one arm, keys and jacket in the other, Nick left the house and stumble-tripped down the walk towards the familiar sight of his vehicle. As he slid into the welcoming comfort of his own car, the driver's seat met his sore body with the one embrace he never doubted would be there waiting for him.

As he drove towards home, he couldn't help but let his mind wander back to the bedroom he'd just left. As the seconds passed, the alcohol dissipating and leaving his mind more focused to ponder Monroe's reaction, he found he was having a hard time understanding the full scope of the blutbad's grief. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely sure why Monroe was so upset. They'd slept together, so what? He knew Monroe didn't love him and he was perfectly fine with that. It didn't mean they couldn't just shove it to the back of their minds and continue on like nothing had happened. Sure it was awkward because they were friends and practically working partners, but was sleeping with Nick really that awful? Was there something he'd said or done that he couldn't remember that warranted such a reaction? Or was it the affects of the alcohol still coursing through the older man's system? Was he crying because he was still drunk? He'd cried after they'd had sex too. How long did alcohol affect Blutbaden anyway? Nick doubted the tome on Blutbaden would say (after all, how many Grimms had Blutbaden drinking buddies?).

Since Monroe was taking the situation the hardest, Nick decided he'd let Monroe determine how things would go from now on and when they'd really talk about it. He'd rejected Monroe's initial offer to talk because he'd rather do it when his head didn't feel like imploding and his lower half didn't feel like seceding from his body. When Monroe was ready, they'd talk, for real.

Just then, a startling thought Nick really didn't have the mental capacity to deal with passed through his mind before he could stop himself.

What if… Monroe didn't want to be friends anymore.

Nick felt his breath catch as an anxiety he'd carried for so many years resurfaced. Monroe must realize by now that Nick was also attracted to men; would he be so disturbed by this fact that he'd be unable to continue their relationship, despite anything Nick said to appease his fears? Did it change their entire dynamic? Would he be unable to look Nick in the eyes after this, so disgusted he was by the potential thoughts skimming just under the surface of Nick's mind?

No, it wasn't worth letting his thoughts go there. Yet he couldn't help but feel a great deal of sadness descend upon his shoulders with the notion that Monroe might leave him for good. He couldn't count how many times he'd been abandoned recently; every time his mind touched on the subject in the last few weeks, his heart would ache and his head would pound. Combined now with his growing hangover, treading too deeply on the matter might incapacitate him. Even yet, their lovely faces, all lined in a row, flashed through his mind in continuous bursts of painful images.

His parents, his aunt… they hadn't had a choice… at least not his Aunt Marie. His mother… His fingers clenched against the leather under his grip, his teeth grinding as her face flickered in front of his eyes. Her eyes, no longer the warm, smiling ones of his memory, replaced by the cool gaze of another, more predatory Grimm. He couldn't trust her, not after what she'd done to him. After she'd lied and made him to suffer alone for so many years. Perhaps his father was even still alive, he didn't know, she hadn't been clear. As soon as Kimura had been killed, she had left. She offered few words except that she loved him and it was for his own good. She promised she would contact him soon.

He felt more loved by her when she had been dead. She wasn't the mother he remembered, the one who used to tuck him in at night and promise she would always be there to love him. What had happened to turn her into what she was now? Would his own eyes twist and curl into cruel embers like hers? Would he lose his empathy and become just as calculating as her aura suggested?

Above all else, he felt betrayed by her. By her lies and her belief that telling him nothing was somehow supposed to protect him from harm.

He laughed, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. What was her betrayal compared to the one he wrought against Juliette?

Juliette. Poor, beautiful Juliette. He'd destroyed her in so many ways because he was too goddamned stubborn to let her go. Too selfish. He'd held onto her in the hopes that he could make things work; he'd kept her under the misguided notion that he could someone work her into his life as a Grimm, that he could somehow keep his lives separate. There was no mistaking it now, only death could separate him from the blood coursing through his own veins; no distance, no matter how far, would suffice.

Juliette, the one he loved above all else; for a time he even believed he loved her even more than himself, but apparently that wasn't the case. What else could explain his selfish desire to keep her caged? She had been snatched up like a rabbit in a snare, caught and smothered deep into his web of lies. And because of his own negligence and naivety, she had suffered unimaginably because of it.

Whatever Adalind had done to Juliette, there was no undoing. Rosalee had spent countless nights searching high and low for a cure, but there was none. Juliette would be forever tainted by what Nick had thoughtlessly done to Adalind and what she in turn had done to Juliette in vengeance.

The doctors called it Late-Onset Schizophrenia, but Nick knew the truth. She saw now what Nick saw everywhere he turned. He knew in that bitter moment when she started shrieking in absolute terror about demons with the faces of goats and people with blood red eyes; her pain his as he watched her cry in that cold, padded cell. Raised catholic, it was what she understood it all to mean. The fear Nick had felt when he first started seeing wesen, she now struggled with it alone. Nick couldn't comfort her, couldn't even get near her, for her fear of this new, other world extended to him as well.

Over a month ago, Juliette had been released from the hospital after her collapse at Monroe's house. Nick would have gone to pick her up, but he was already struggling with the return of his mother. Hank had offered to pick up Juliette from the hospital so Nick could distract himself by cleaning the house and making up a comforting 'welcome home' meal for Juliette. He'd doubted then that Juliette would have forgotten their conversation about his sanity and his attempts to prove to her the existence of wesen; he hoped that his efforts to welcome her home would result in her forgiveness and perhaps her willingness to listen to him again as he tried to explain himself. Monroe, at the time, was still willing to show her his true face. When she was feeling up to it, he planned on taking her over to his house to prove he wasn't crazy.

They never got to that point. As soon as Juliette had walked through the front door, something in her changed. Her eyes had gone round with terror at just the sight of Nick's face. She said nothing as she stared at him in horror, so he hadn't been sure if he was understanding her look correctly. He remembered wondering if she'd forgotten him, or if he had been correct to assume that Adalind had done something to her. Hank, completely unaware of the change, had given Juliette a brief hug. Nick couldn't help but notice the way she clutched at his elbow as he bid them farewell and headed for the door. At the sound of the door closing and latching, Juliette lunged.

He wasn't sure what she saw then, he still didn't. Perhaps she'd seen his true face, the one even he couldn't see. The true face of the Grimm, however horrid and revolting it might be. A face every wesen, even Monroe, had seen. He remembered the feel of her hands around his throat, the press of her thumbs against his larynx, with a strength, almost super-human. Her eyes, dark and crazed as she screamed over and over again into his face, _"Demon!" _He managed somehow to break free of her grasp, but only long enough for Juliette to snatch a steak knife from the dining room table and stab Nick three times in the left shoulder and arm. If Hank hadn't been outside the door just then, would she have tried to kill him? He could never hurt Juliette, even if she was about to do him in. Not when she wasn't even herself. Not when he'd been the one to do this to her…

It had rained that night, he remembered, as he had sat huddled in one of the ambulances as the EMT did her best to staunch the bleeding. He remembered Hank's hand on his other shoulder as they watched another ambulance take Juliette back to the hospital, a different one, for evaluation.

Juliette was gone now, shipped off to California to live with her sister, Lydia, on her spacious ranch. It was a place for the abused, the strays and the abandoned. It was the sort of place Juliette had always dreamed of working at, a place to do real good in the world. However, as it was, she would never be able to work as a veterinarian again; with the unpredictability of her behavior, she couldn't be trusted with sharp implements. She couldn't be trusted not to hurt herself or others. For now, she was doing pretty well at her sister's; her attacks were far and few in between, but whenever Lydia or her husband tried to take her into town, Juliette would lose her mind as soon as she spotted a wesen of any sort. She would grow agitated to the point of violent hysteria and had almost injured one of Lydia's children in the process. For now they kept Juliette sheltered on the ranch where she helped with the animal rehabilitation.

_The animals calm her_, Lydia had said the last time she and Nick had talked on the phone. _You should see her… she's almost like herself again._

But he never could. He could never see Juliette again if he wanted her to have any semblance of a life again. Every time her eyes fell upon his face, or even if his name wisped past her ears, she would convulse into a violent fit, foaming at the mouth as she dragged her fingernails deep into the flesh of her arms. Whatever Adalind had done to her, it was intended for Nick's ultimate destruction. Nick was supposed to have died at the hands of Juliette that night. He hadn't, physically, but sometimes it felt as though he had inside.

Now the love of his life was gone, as good as dead to him; Juliette was another person he'd lost, this time by his own hands it seemed. If only he'd left her sooner - if he'd let her go - maybe she could have been happy, could have lived a normal, full life with a loving husband and the two wonderful children she had always longed for. A boy and a girl. And a house full of animals. It was possible now that Juliette would die alone, all because of him.

With a shuddering sigh, Nick pushed these thoughts as well as far from his mind as possible as he pulled up to the front of the empty house. Inside he knew there were boxes stacked in all corners, a few bare essentials here and there; with just the realization of what his life had become in such a short, few months, he felt the sadness sag down into his very soul. The house had always been Juliette's and was under her name. He'd been living in an apartment until he met her. A week ago Lydia had put the house up for sale in order to help cover Juliette's mounting medical bills for a lifelong disorder they would have to try their best to work with. Lydia felt bad kicking Nick out, but Nick assured her that he had a place to go and would be out by the time the house sold. And it wasn't as though he felt he belonged there anymore, not when Juliette's brilliant smile wasn't there to welcome him home. Not when it had dimmed and faded taking with it every comfort he'd known for so long. The house was just a dark hole now, a shadow of his former happiness. It was a place where his life had ended in so many ways.

Stopping at the door for a moment to let his imagination carry him back to the auburn waves of her hair, he steeled himself before jostling the keys in the lock and swinging the door open to hollow darkness. He dragged himself reluctantly through the house to the bathroom to brush his teeth in hopes of dislodging the lingering taste of shame and bitterness on his tongue. When he finally gazed up and into the mirror, the person he found there disgusted him. If he hadn't stared every night into those same dull, flat-gray eyes, now unpleasantly emphasized by heavy, dark circles, he wouldn't have recognized himself. His face had a sallow look to it now and was beginning to look noticeably thinner. His unshaven cheeks hid some of the damage weeks of malnourishment had wreaked on his body. He knew he should try to eat more, but he was finding himself forgetting to and his body had ceased to violently protest his self-inflicted fast. Hank had noticed, even Monroe; he'd seen the worry in their eyes and noticed their attempts to push food on him. It wasn't as though he was doing this to punish himself; the grief swallowing his heart just took precedence in his mind. When he shed his shirt to examine the damage further, he could tell his muscles were beginning to suffer as well and felt chastised by the looseness of his jeans. Perhaps he'd ask Monroe to have dinner with him more often, just so he'd remember to eat. He would ask when Monroe called him later that night or the next.

Even his hair had suffered from neglect, grown too long and hanging carelessly limp into his eyes, looking all the worse for wear. Normally Juliette would have given it a trim every two weeks, but he hadn't bothered with the scissors or a barber. There'd really been no point. Who was he trying to impress now? Was there really anyone but Juliette? Monroe maybe, unconsciously, but that went nowhere fast.

He snickered as he flexed his shrunken physique in the mirror. Everyone always said, "_Nick, you're so beautiful," _if they could only see him now_. _He looked diseased, especially with the way his face was beginning to waste away. Whatever dark, hideous evil thing that existed inside of Nick, Juliette had seen it. An inner ugliness his outer beauty could no longer hide. Had Monroe seen it too last night? Had he seen the true Nick Burkhardt? The one only Nick knew existed?

Nick threw open the cupboard under the sink and pulled out his electric shaver. If he was so ugly inside, at least the outside should match.

When he was done, only a thin sheen of black fuzz hid his lumpy skull. Now he truly looked like he was dying. He shot himself a dark grin in the mirror, morbidly amused by the transformation.

Now that he'd dealt with the petty cosmetic portion of his image, it was impossible to ignore the burning pain in his arm any longer. Examining the tender, bruised flesh of his left arm, he was irritated to find he'd drawn blood in several places where his teeth had punctured skin. It was scabbed over now in weak patches of red. He'd be damned if he got an infection from something so stupid. Scraping his fingernails over the skin of his arm, he felt the small droplets of blood form in their wake. He squeezed out whatever sickly blood he could before dousing the bite in water and soap, finishing with the painful sting of disinfectant. When he deemed it fit, he staunched what remained before slapping down some antibiotics and wrapping the whole mess, bruise and all, beneath ashen white gauze.

He supposed it wasn't that odd for a person to bite themselves when they were troubled. People always seemed to bite at their lips when they were nervous or agitated; he'd done that too last night, and now his lips were shredded and raw and he sorely regretted it. The night before, he'd accidentally slipped back into an old habit he'd formed during his childhood. Normally he wouldn't have bitten down so hard, but he supposed it was the fault of the alcohol dimming his sense of reality and how much he was really harming himself. He'd only ever drawn blood once before during a particularly tough time in high school and swore he would never be so careless again. Apparently drinking hadn't helped, nor his grief or the sadness he'd felt while coupled with Monroe's body. Every time Nick had moved in for a kiss, Monroe had rejected him. And every gentle touch he longed for from the older man had been withheld. As their bodies had joined, fierce and meaningless, Nick, overwhelmed with the anguish of impending abandonment when they would inevitably part, wept in the only way he knew how.

When he was younger, he'd felt selfish asking Aunt Marie to comfort him when she too felt the burden of sadness, coupled with the amount of responsibility suddenly thrust upon her shoulders. He didn't want to further burden her, so he'd learned his own way of dealing with his painful emotions. Because of the nature of his new life as an orphan, a life constantly on the move, he'd learned how to scream and cry without making a sound so as not to trouble her. Even those times when he'd had to sleep in a bed right beside hers, she hadn't been the wiser. Buried beneath the covers, he'd curl in on himself and scream in silent anguish. Biting himself became a way of controlling his desire to let his inner torment pierce the air. The pain kept him focused on the moment, kept his mind from wandering too far out of his control.

Even back then, it wasn't by far a new concept to him; he'd learned how to cry quietly all his life so as not to be chastised by his parents for acting childish. He supposed they were only trying to prepare him for a difficult life when he came into his heritage, but he'd learned to feel guilty when he was sad. It wasn't as though he'd suffered much in his life; his parents had always been kind to him and he'd never experienced abuse of any kind. Even the death of his parents felt underrated in terms of suffering worldwide by other kids his age. Child soldiers and slaves. He was lucky in so many ways. He supposed any psychologist would be horrified by the way he rationalized and handled his grief and it was probably not a healthy way to deal with pain, which he did realize. Even still, even now, having reached out to Monroe for comfort, he felt a certain weight of guilt crushing him.

Monroe was his friend, but his grief was only his to bear. Monroe had never tried to drown Nick in his own hidden sorrows, not that Nick would have minded. He would have carried Monroe anywhere he needed to go on his shoulders if it came down to it. But another's sorrow often distracted Nick from his own.

Perhaps it wasn't such an selfless intention after all.

He wouldn't ask again or bring up his grief surrounding Juliette. He'd let them slip comfortably back into their casual relationship, one not fraught with despair. Maybe they'd never know each other's darkest secrets, but as long as he could still call Monroe his friend, he'd rather be silently miserable than utterly alone.

Feeling rather sullen now and ultra-conscious of his recent self-neglect, Nick forced himself to drink a glass of water and eat a couple pieces of toast. Unfortunately his stomach wasn't quite as enthusiastic as he was and protested sharply; he found himself back in the bathroom. Defeated, he took a few aspirin, drank another glass of water and went to bed. He woke several hours later, the clock next to his head boasting a little after three in the afternoon. He felt noticeably better than he had before, but was still a bit nauseous and more than a little dizzy. He forced more water into himself and another few pieces of toast. This time they stayed down.

When he finally checked his phone he as disappointed to find that Monroe hadn't called him yet. He probably needed more time, he rationalized; and if he felt the way Nick did, he was probably still passed out in bed.

Unsure of what to do, Nick found himself sitting in the sparse living room. All that was left was the couch as he'd already packed away the TV. He wasn't sure why he'd done that when he thought about it; it seemed rather impatient of him as he wouldn't be moving out for another week at least. Bored, he slowly let his head slump to the back of the couch. He sat there for awhile and contemplated the itch deep in his muscles. Not just in his muscles, but in his veins, his very core. An ache he hadn't acknowledged in years. His fingertips tingled and twitched against his pant leg as he longed for the feel of firm wood between his fingers…

He ignored it for awhile, choosing instead to stare blankly at the ceiling. When he couldn't tolerate the feeling anymore, he clamored from the couch to snag his recently neglected sketch pad and a thick, charcoal pencil. He paused as he considered what to draw. Juliette? No, too painful.

He started to sketch the stack of boxes in the far corner of the living room for no more reason than it held no inherent meaning to him and was no more than cold, harsh lines. The longer he drew, ignoring his real desire, he felt himself grow more and more agitated until he was digging the blunt tip of the pencil deep into the paper, dragging from the white a cavernous black hole he wished to fall into.

Frustrated to the point of violent anger, he threw the sketch book at the wall before collapsing onto the couch in sudden exhaustion. There was no way around it. He couldn't ignore his own internal workings anymore. He'd buried part of his soul for years for no real reason he could readily discern.

Tugging on his shoes and changing his shirt, Nick headed out the backdoor for the yard. Around the house was the gardening shed where he kept his infrequently used bike. He was pleased to find that the tires weren't completely shot when he pulled it out to examine it. Juliette's bike still hung on the rack besides his. In the early days of their relationship, they'd frequently hit the trails and mountain bike for hours; it had been a blast. But work had quickly overtaken their weekends for both of them and their bikes fell into disuse. Looking at her bike now, Nick felt regret tug at his heart. If he'd known what would have eventually happened to them, he would have taken more vacation, more days off. He would have taken her to all the places she wanted to go and would have treated her like royalty every day of her life. He wouldn't have ever argued with her or missed a dinner or, or, or…

There was nothing Nick could do about it now but move forward as painful as that was. Juliette was, in her own way. She was healing within the constraints she was capable of, as tight and cloistered as they were. Nick would just have to do the same.

Locking up the house, Nick took off down the road towards the closest art store he could remember. It was a couple of miles away, but it gave his legs something to do and distracted his mind. Not only that, it was an unusually pleasant day for June; it was warm and rather breezy with the bright sun caressing his pale, winter skin. It was nearly a half-hour later when he reached the chic little storefront. He'd never shopped there before, but had made a mental note of it several times whenever he'd passed by it on his shift. He'd always meant to go in, but had always told himself he didn't have time for art anymore. But oh, how he needed it now.

He parked his bike out front, hoped no one would snag it as he'd forgotten a lock, then headed into the shop. He was greeted by the fragrant smell of paper and paint, wood and canvas. It was the much needed tonic for his soul. Unbidden, his fingers moved over every bristle, every tube, every textured surface he'd denied himself for years. Eventually he found himself stopped in front of the array of colors nailed to the wall, remembering their names like old friends and lovers. Each one precious for their beauty and transforming quality. He hesitated over them before he began grabbing for the acrylic, knowing he had no patience for oil and lacked the mental clarity for watercolors. He needed the quick, forgivable quality of these paints. He needed someone to forgive him his impulsiveness and impatience. He needed the embrace of these colors as much as one from a friend. Here, these paints would love him, wouldn't judge him, based on the ugliness of his soul or body. They could be warm, they could be cold, but they would bend to his will while retaining their own. They were all he needed in his solitude.

He ended up with a basket full of varying shapes and sizes of brushes and a hefty weight of paint. At first he'd grabbed a few 18x24 canvases, but quickly realized his thirst wouldn't, couldn't be quenched by their confined size. Ambitiously, he snagged a few 30x48's before he could think better of it. It wasn't until after he was thanking the store clerk for his bag of supplies when he realized there was no easy way for him to get his purchases home. He really should have driven.

"Um, do you have a bungee or some rope I could borrow?" Nick asked with a chastised look on his face. "I sort of rode my bike here, I guess I wasn't really planning on buying so much…"

The store clerk, a man who looked more like a former Hell's Angel than an artist, chuckled at him. "Oh, here, hold on," he said with a pleasant smile. "Donna?" he called to the back of the store. A short second later, a petite woman about the same age appeared. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and had short, cropped silver hair; he judged from her bohemian dress and bare feet that she had probably been a hippie at some point in her life, if not still.

"Yes, hun?"

"Can you give this poor guy a ride home? He rode here on his bike."

"Oh, no, that's too much," Nick quickly started in horror.

"No problem. Any artist is a friend of mine," the woman said with a warm smile on her face. She beamed at Nick as though he was an old friend; it was startlingly welcome and soothing on his troubled mind. Even yet, Nick couldn't bring himself to impose on these kind people.

"If I could just have some rope…"

"It's no problem, honey!" she said with a wide grin and a rough slap on Nick's back. "I'm parked 'round back. We'll probably have to strap those canvases of yours to the top though."

Nick was quickly beginning to realize there was really no way to win against these people. And besides, the woman had already spirited off all his canvases, which left him no other choice than to stumble after her.

When he saw her car, his heart ached and filled with longing. It was a Volkswagen Beetle just like Monroe's, only done in Robin's Egg Blue. He'd just seen Monroe the night before, but with his discouraging thoughts of late, he found himself longing to curl into the blutbad's side and sleep until this storm passed over. The chance that he'd never ride in the man's car again made him happy he'd unintentionally purchased such ridiculous amounts of supplies, if only for the memories he'd recall in the shell of this small car.

"Here, darling, you can put your bike back here."

Even for such a tiny car, Nick wasn't surprised to find a bike rack attached to the rear bumper along with various bumper stickers and the almost mandatory one, _Keep Portland Weird_. Anywhere else it would probably be unusual, but like the bumper sticker proclaimed, Portland tended to do things a little differently.

While Donna strapped the canvases to the roof of her car, Nick climbed into the passenger's seat; by her familiarity with the task, he could tell it was a common occurrence for her, whether for herself or from helping others as she was now. She had rebuffed all of Nick's attempts at helping her so he had given up. She seemed quite intent on spoiling him like her child and with the lack of motherly attention he'd felt since Marie's death, he was hard-pressed to refuse it.

"Alright, we're ready to go," she said as she climbed into the driver's seat. Nick was prepared to describe his address, but all she needed was a street name and number. "I used to be a bus driver for the local elementary," she explained. "Helps I've lived here all my life too," she finished with a chuckle.

They chatted comfortably for awhile before Nick felt compelled to say, "I'm sorry you have to go to all this trouble when I probably smell awful. I swear I really do have a house to go home to…"

"Oh, I know," Donna said. "Considering how much you bought, I figured you had _some _hole in the wall."

"I really should have taken a shower before I went out, but… I just needed to leave before I went crazy. I haven't painted in years, but there's really nothing… I really needed to…" Nick trailed off as he debated with himself internally. He wrung his hands several times before he confessed softly, "My… girlfriend's recently been diagnosed as a schizophrenic and… I've been so depressed. And then last night, I ended up having a drunken one-night stand with my best friend and now I think he hates me…"

She was silent for a long second before she said, "Well, I bet whatever you paint today will be heart-wrenchingly beautiful. I find I always paint the best when I'm in pain. My own husband died two years ago and sometimes it's almost impossible for me to drag myself out of bed. Having a canvas there, waiting for me, not expecting anything from the world or from me, it helps. It also helps to have to go to work every day. Do you have someone looking out for you?"

Nick chuckled a little. "If you're worried I'll hurt myself… I'm a cop. If I failed to show up, I'd have a whole squad beating down my door."

She laughed herself. "That's good to hear. You can always come by the shop anytime you need to. Jim and Florence are always happy to talk to a fellow artist. And you should bring your paintings by sometime, I'd love to see them."

"I'm not very good…"

"Oh, nonsense!" she huffed and swiped her hand at Nick as though to slap him playfully. "Though I'd be irritated if you talked yourself up too much," she joked.

Nick laughed. "Arrogance isn't becoming."

When they finally arrived at the house, Donna helped Nick carry his supplies to the front door before she gave him a tight hug and a warm farewell. Nick was relieved when she was gone because he felt a small prickling of tears behind his eyes and really didn't want to be reduced to crying on the shoulder of someone he'd only just met. He watched her drive on down the road before he shoved his key into the door. If he ever created anything half-way decent he'd be sure to lug it down to the shop to show her, even if just to see her again. In many ways she reminded him of Marie, in her sweet smile and her kind eyes.

He wished he could hear Marie's voice just once more… but unlike his 'late' mother, she was actually gone for good.

Unwilling to ponder her anymore for the moment, either of them, he pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the task at hand. In the shed he found the tarps he and Juliette had used when they'd repainted the kitchen the year before. Since there was no longer a reason not to, Nick threw one down on the living room floor and tacked another to the wall before lining up his three canvases along it. He hadn't purchased an easel and hadn't owned one for years, so he'd have to make due with what he had.

He lined up his paints, one by one, and his brushes spread out in a fan. With his deep mug of water at hand and a ratty old towel across his lap, he sat for a long time just staring into the endless depths of his chosen canvas.

Slowly, he let his fingers come to rest against a medium sized brush - round tip, not intended for careful details, just to lay down the foundation. With his other hand he skimmed across the smooth flesh of the paints, searching for just the right shade of his pain. He paused against the tube of Burnt Sienna, thinking of Monroe's warm eyes staring into his. His wide smile and the curls of his hair. His finger clenched, his nails digging into tender flesh. Relaxing, they continued their journey, pausing once more over a tube of Hansa Yellow - his mother's favorite color. It wasn't pain he felt then, just anger. His anger was in shades of yellow. Hansa, ochre, lemon. He forced himself to keep moving.

His pain, his pain was…

He felt his hand reaching, uninhibited, for the Prussian Blue.

Juliette, Juliette… She'd always loved this color. It reminded him of her.

Once the shade of his happiness, it was now only a reminder of his grief.

He unscrewed the cap slowly, feeling the muscles in his arms flexing and tightening as he fought against his desire to throw the whole mess at the wall.

Control, control, he'd always kept himself in control. Every line purposeful in its placement and wrought full of meaning. Faces, animals, flowers, he'd done it all. But what did it mean if it had no life behind it; no reason to exist under the careful strokes of his brush. He wasn't hungry for meaning, he was thirsty for passion and feeling. Raw emotion screaming across the empty plane.

He squeezed a long strip of paint onto the palm of his hand. Without allowing himself any time for thought, he slammed it hard against the canvas, the wooden edges reverberating violently against the wall from the sudden jostling. He let his hand fall, sliding in a long streak of color.

Again, this time in red.

The smears of fresh paint stared at him like two curious, gaping eyes. Two wings on a butterfly. Two people he loved more than anything.

Stark red as blood. Monroe's favorite color. His wild eyes. Deep, midnight blue. Juliette's when she whispered, _I love you _against his they touched in a sliver of serendipity, violet, a color Nick had always loved yet hesitated to claim for himself. Instead, he was the black he now dragged between them; an empty, cavernous feeling against the canvas. But he was also the white; the nothing haunting their steps.

His fingernails scraped through the layers of wet paint, revealing where he truly hid beneath it all. Deep, smothered under their weighty existences. He would have carried them anywhere; he would have loved them with all his soul. He already did. But they couldn't carry him. Couldn't love him anymore. He was here, drowning under the pain of their loss, his fingers scraping at the ice in their eyes. Cold, frozen, hypothermic. Never again would he laze about in their warmth.

All he had was this and his bittersweet memories.

A certain insanity overtook him then in the scrape and slap of his blood, his _true blood,_ against canvas. Fierce oranges and reds and blues, a wild tempest of energy flowing out through his fingertips. It was in a fervor he moved; one he hadn't allowed for so long, it ached with a tenderness he'd forgotten long before. His hands moved faster than his mind, throwing paint down before he could debate its aesthetic value and function. How many years had it been since he'd felt the cool embrace of the medium? Since he'd let himself fall so deeply into his own passion?

Why'd he hide away this side of himself for so long? Juliette would have supported him, he was sure; had he really believed that an explosion of paint on canvas could derail him from his own future? It was laughable, the notion.

It was true that at some point he'd accepted that he would never be an artist, would always be just a man who loved art - someone who had a meager talent for drawing. As a child, he'd wanted to go to art school and become a painter, but after his parents' death, he knew his Aunt Marie didn't have the funds to send him. Even as a child, there'd been this hesitation in his parents' eyes when he told them he wanted to be a famous artist and have his paintings hung in the Metropolitan. Now he had a feeling it had to do with his heritage, but as a child, he'd attributed it to his own short-comings in talent.

He'd gone on with this belief for most of his life. He just wasn't good enough for art school. He just wasn't good enough to be an artist. He had to pick a different career goal as there was no possible way he could make a living as an artist with his paltry, half-formed talent. His parents had never tried to right this belief, but he supposed they were doing their best to prepare him for his future reality. Even now, with nothing holding him back, he couldn't be an artist. He would always be a Grimm. No matter how far he ran, to the ends of the earth, no matter how many identities he gathered and dispelled, no matter how many names he had, he would always be a Grimm. He would always be hunted for his blood and would always be compelled to keep the peace between wesen. His life as a cop was a good coincidence; it allowed him a way to move legally through his obligations to his heritage and a way to hide the illegal side as well.

But it wasn't as though he had necessarily planned on becoming a detective as a child; he had never been one of those boys who wanted to be a cop or a firefighter almost by default. In elementary and middle school, when he would pick 'artist' as his future ambition, he had been greeted quite often with whispered 'sissy's and 'fag's by the other boys. He always hated those kids and was always glad when, inevitably, they would move again. Eventually he just started putting down, 'famous basketball player.' It was vague, hard to argue, and kept the other boys at a comfortable distance - not too close, yet not so far away.

When fate dumped Nick and Marie south of Portland a year after graduation, Nick decided he was done moving; he was done ripping his own roots from the ground. He wanted somewhere to call his home for once. He'd jumped at the chance for a place on the Portland PD as an officer. He'd been a little too young at the time, so he'd taken a place in the office as an assistant and used his slim paycheck to put himself through the local community college. He'd met Hank then, a regular officer. They'd quickly become friends and when Hank moved up to detective, Nick had a goal.

Aunt Marie had been proud of him, of course. She'd thrown him a small party, just the two of them, when he'd gotten the officer's job. Shortly after that, duty called and she shipped out of town, leaving Nick behind to forge his own future. He felt then, for the first time since he was very young, a clear sense of where his life was headed and the life he was capable of having. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly happy.

His talent for drawing and memorizing facial features came in handy for sketching down criminals, but he'd let his internal creativity wither and decay into bare bones. He rarely showed others his drawings, save the times he needed to use his sketches to catch criminals. It was nearly two years into his relationship with Juliette before she even knew he had a talent for drawing. She'd been annoyed that he'd never shared that part of himself, but he'd brushed it off. Now he wished he'd lavished her with drawings of her favorite flowers or animals, now when he never could. He'd sent a few her way, never signed, and Lydia said she enjoyed them greatly. Said Juliette wished she could meet the man with such a gentle hand.

It was heart-wrenching and self-destructive, so he stopped. Even just imaging her delighted face as she took in the soft charcoal lines of a lily, or the precise dips and curves of a tulip, his heart shattered. Again and again.

But right now this was for no one but him. This was his pain, messy and disoriented, scattered and smeared across the canvas in the way it felt in his chest. Nothing about it could be considered beautiful; it was honest and ugly and broken, just like him, all alone in this empty house.

TBC

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the cumbersome nature of this chapter and thank you for your patience; following chapters will be formatted better. At the time of initial writing, I was still searching for the right way to format chapters. Thank you for continuing to read. :)


	4. SHAME II

A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.

* * *

CHAPTER 4: Shame II

Monroe wasn't sure what to think when he opened his eyes. He couldn't remember passing out or Nick even leaving for that matter. Now the bed just felt cold. Getting run over by a tractor probably felt no different than how he felt now. He did his best to will himself back to sleep for no other reason than the shear chance of waking up to a different reality, one where he hadn't hurt Nick. But alas, his eyes wouldn't close and his bladder had other, very adamant plans. He begrudgingly dragged himself from bed and headed towards the adjoining bathroom. After relieving himself, he hopped into the shower to wash away the remnants of the night.

Standing there with his back to the showerhead and his hands against the opposite wall, he wondered if things could have been different. How things could have gone if he'd been gentle with Nick's body; if he'd treated Nick like a lover instead of a conquest. If he'd spent the necessary time to kiss and hold Nick, would Nick be there now, under his body in the small shower? The tight muscles of his back pressed to Monroe's front…? Would he have smiled in that adorable way of his that Monroe hadn't seen lately, in the way that he missed so much? Would he have kissed Monroe under the warm spray of water, pleased to call them lovers?

Could he have made Nick happy again?

Ah, but no, he'd thrown that all away last night like it wasn't important, even though it was. Even if Nick hadn't wanted to be lovers or anything even close to that, even if he was just drunk and lonely and willing to do anything to feel loved, at least they could have just shrugged if off to stupidity and the fault of the alcohol. They could have just settled back to the way things were: comfortable. As it was, there was no way in hell that Nick could ever think of Monroe without acknowledging the violence and the pain too. He would never feel the same, easy trust towards him again. Now because Nick knew the truth about Monroe, about the real one buried beneath the false, weider exterior. The real Monroe was instinctually bad, hence the christened name to his blood and kin. He'd even killed a few people in the past and he supposed it was only a matter of time before Nick gave real thought to those deaths and chose how best to deal with them. It had been something he'd said in passing forever ago, when they'd first met. He supposed it was probably not the smartest thing to say to a Grimm, but at the time he hadn't thought too much of it, which was even more ridiculous considering Nick was a Grimm with connections to the local authorities - which he _had _known. At the time, he was trying to make a point; he just hoped now that Nick didn't have a particularly good memory. But he supposed it was only time for him to start paying for his past, especially after he'd gone all this time under the guise of innocence when he was so far from it.

Perhaps that's what would happen now. Nick really had no reason left to protect him; there were no more lingering feelings of friendship towards Monroe and Nick had made other wesen friends to go to for help. He didn't need Monroe anymore. Once Nick found the necessary evidence - or created it - it was safe to assume there would be cops pounding down his door at any time. And it's not like it would be too terribly difficult; Monroe had been a stupid twenty-something year old back then so there was bound to be plenty of negligence on his part. Even now, after what he'd done to Nick, he might get charged with something.

If Nick told. He couldn't see Nick telling anyone, honestly. Monroe deserved to be punished, but he doubted Nick would want everyone to know what Monroe had done to him. It would hurt him socially and hurt his image as a Grimm. Instead, it was more likely that Monroe would meet with misfortune one day. It wasn't like Nick didn't know the ins and outs of how to make accidents look like just that, accidents. Maybe even Hank would help, after all, partners tended to be close.

Or not. Nick was too upstanding sometimes. It upset Monroe that he might never be punished for the bad things he'd done in life. And it wasn't like Nick had tons of free time just laying around to work out ways to punish Monroe for the rest of his life. Nick had plenty of responsibilities to take care of first; something like revenge wouldn't be a top priority for Nick as the man rarely put himself first.

Monroe sighed. Oh, if he could take it all back, he would. If he could do anything to make things even somewhat right, he'd do it. Nick was the best thing to ever happen to him. Rosalee, a close second.

What would she think if she knew? Would she avoid him too? Fuchsbaue, like most wesen, were naturally nervous around Blutbaden anyway; she tended to be quite fiery and fierce as far as Fuchsbaue were concerned and she trusted him like Nick had, but he could see her choosing instinct over friendship under these circumstances. It wasn't like Monroe would ever do that to someone again (because he hated knowing he had and he was giving up drinking, period, even beer). But he wouldn't blame her if she forced some distance between them; it was only out of self-preservation after all.

No, it was back to solitude. Back to the regimen. Back to a life of loneliness. Back to where he probably should have always been. In the past, he'd always blamed his recklessness and poor choices on others and their influence. _If he wasn't in a pack, he'd be better. If he wasn't with Angelina, he wouldn't be so wild. If he just stuck to his Pilates and his diet, he'd be fine. He'd be a good guy._

But now he finally had to recognize the reality that had been staring him the face for so long. Something he'd stumbled upon long ago as a child, but only gave thought to it as he grew older. He was a blutbad, therefore he was just innately evil, no way around it. It was why Blutbaden were so fierce and wild and angry. Sure, they loved each other, loved their pack, but when the bloodlust took over and their eyes turned the color of that sweet, sticky liquid, a certain level of detachment swallowed their minds and compelled them to trample and destroy every living thing in their path. There were reasons why Grimms hunted Blutbaden and there were certainly reasons why the two were incapable of friendship, let alone intimate relationships. Blutbaden hurt people; they killed people. No thing good would bring such terror to their surroundings unless they were monsters.

As it was, he just happened to be one of those monsters.

* * *

Feeling quite sorry for himself, Monroe dragged his tired body out of the shower, dressed reluctantly, before trudging downstairs, completely prepared to spend the next hour or so cleaning up. He was stunned to find his living room looking as though nothing had happened the night before. If it wasn't for the stench of booze and semen, he'd love to believe just that.

Why would Nick clean up? After what had happened, why would he even bother? Now Monroe just felt worse. Not only had he harmed Nick, but somehow or rather he'd unconsciously managed to get Nick to clean up after them. Or maybe it was his way of trying to erase the memories. If the evidence wasn't there, maybe it hadn't happened; maybe that was his thinking.

Monroe wanted to cry again, he felt so crappy. His head still hurt and he wanted to burrow into the earth and not wake 'til spring. Maybe in the spring things would be better. Yeah, maybe he should take a vacation, head up north and never come back. Run away from his problems like he always did. _Yeah, that sounds like a good plan as always,_ he thought with far more than a touch of sarcasm. It's not like his problems always stayed buried; eventually, like most things, they managed somehow to resurface, only worse - they were always rotten.

* * *

He forced himself back into the bedroom to deal with what he'd eventually have to take care of anyway; he'd never be able to sleep on his own bed again if it continued to smell like Nick. His scent would linger for awhile of course, there was nothing to do about that except to buy a different mattress, but at least he could deal with the sheets.

He walked over to the left side of the bed where Nick had slept the night before, and there, in a few tiny splotches, was the blood he'd smelled. It seemed… oddly higher up the bed than he remembered. He scratched a fingernail against the rusty stain_. _It seemed like it could have come from Nick sitting up, and as he thought it seemed awfully close to the headboard, it seemed like the only logical conclusion. But _did _he sit up at all? He didn't remember. It must have been when he left…

He sniffed the blood and knew it was definitely Nick's without a doubt. It had that sweet, aromatic smell he'd grown accustomed to associating with the younger man. He didn't really feel excited now with the scent like he had the night before. Now he just felt empty. Sad. He wasn't sure how it got to where it was now, but he knew he'd been the one to cause it and that's all he needed to know.

With a hard yank, he tugged the sheets from the bed, the whole mattress moving along with it right off of the frame. The headboard slammed against the wall with a loud _bang_, as though to echo his frustrations. Suddenly thrown into an uncontrollable rage, Monroe picked up the mattress as though it weighed no more than a couch cushion and hurled it at the opposite wall. Picture frames and a few of his prized clocks clattered to the ground, several breaking and glass shattering everywhere. The few pictures that managed to go by unscathed, he smashed himself. He bunched up the sheets in his hands and stalked towards the bedroom door to leave. Before he could do so, however, he encountered his dresser parked beside the door and within moments clothes and broken wood littered the floor. All down the hall, he smashed pictures and swiped at clocks with his fists, and in several places he left behind deep grooves from his elongated claws.

In the living room, he tore up the couch, almost as though he couldn't stop himself; considering it's where it had all started, it was reason enough. It's where he decided not to care about anyone but himself. He couldn't stand to look at the ugly piece of shit any longer anyway.

By the time he reached the laundry room, he just felt hollow. He stared down at the soft material in his hands and sighed. He'd never lost himself quite like that before. In the past he'd broken things, sure, but never his own _nice_ things. Sure he'd thrown lamps at the wall, but he'd never broken one of his clocks before, even when it _was _the clock he was frustrated with. And he wasn't sure why he'd smashed all the pictures. Maybe he just liked the sound of falling glass, because a lot of those pictures had been valuable to him personally or were particularly expensive prints.

He put his head down on the washer with a heavy sigh when he calculated the extent of the damage he'd caused and how expensive it'd be to re-plaster and repaint the walls and fix that hole he'd apparently punched at some point but couldn't quite recall when. The blood on his knuckles would certainly point him in the right direction. He would also have to buy a new couch. Damn. And probably a new dresser and maybe even a new bed, which certainly solved the mattress dilemma in a round about way, but at a hefty price.

Then his nose twitched and his mind was somewhere else entirely. He couldn't help the way he breathed in the scent pouring off of the sheets under his head. He buried his entire face in the soft material for awhile as he memorized the smell he'd probably never have the good graces to experience again. He pulled away after a long time, feeling sullen. God, he was disgusting. He really was a pervert.

He shoved the ball of material into the washer, cranked it to the highest heat and put maybe too much laundry detergent in and a disgusting amount of vinegar. He hoped that would take care of the smell at the very least. He'd be okay with cleaning up suds if he didn't have to be haunted by the Grimm's scent for another minute. He should just throw the sheets out, but… but…

Monroe walked out of the laundry room refusing to think about it any longer.

* * *

It wasn't quite noon yet, but he hadn't eaten anything since the night before so more out of habit than desire, he shuffled into the kitchen and made himself some toast and an omelet. He made himself a strong cup of coffee as well and was just sitting down to eat when he noticed the plates left over from the night before. Nick hadn't wanted to eat, but Monroe had forced him to have some of the casserole. He'd noticed how thin Nick was getting and it worried him.

Monroe sat down at his empty seat and pushed the dirty plate away from him with a finger. It caught and skidded to a halt on the table, not having moved very far. Eyes flashing red, Monroe found his arm automatically throwing the olive colored ceramic dish at the wall. His shoulders muscles tightening with the urge to destroy everything in sight, he focused on the plate in front of him as he shoveled several tasteless bites of egg into his mouth before he found himself throwing that as well.

What was the point if he couldn't even enjoy it? It's not like he was hungry anyway. After Nick had come into his life, eating alone was just miserable. He realized before everything had gone down that it was unrealistic to have dinner with the man every night, he did have, or had at the time, a girlfriend. If he'd been smart about it, he could have capitalized on her departure, but it was inappropriate at the time and now he didn't have a chance in hell of it _ever._

Why was he even thinking about that now? How could he even consider being miserable about eating alone after…

Monroe realized he probably needed to do something about his temper soon because his table and chairs had now joined the wreckage on the floor. He stared down at his smashed cup of coffee and felt regretful. He'd really needed that too.

He made himself another cup of coffee, finished it off while it was still scalding hot before he had a chance to throw it at the wall as well, then slipped on his shoes and ran out the door. He really had no destination in mind, he just needed to run.

Running from his problems again, only quite literally this time, if not ironically so. At least by the time he was done, he'd feel a little more in control of himself again.

* * *

When Monroe finally stumbled back into the house, four days had passed. The house reeked of spoiled food, not that he smelled any better himself. He'd spent the better portion of those days wandering the woods aimlessly. Instinctually, he knew he had to return since he really couldn't spend the rest of his life like an animal. Sure, back in his younger days, and even not so far back in the past, he'd spent great chunks of time like his ancestors, naked and wild, just killing and scavenging to survive. But Monroe was a 21st Century blutbad. He had responsibilities and bills to pay. And he had a responsibility to Nick. One he had yet to figure out how to handle despite all the time he'd had to think.

When he did manage to find his phone buried in a discarded flannel at the bottom of the rubble strewn about his bedroom, he was both disappointed and relieved to find that Nick had yet to call or text him. He wasn't sure what he'd say to the other man if he had and he was almost afraid of what Nick was thinking. It was just so much easier to keep hoping the problem would solve itself or just disappear entirely instead of facing up to it. The problem wouldn't fix itself, he realized, but hiding didn't seem quite as difficult as staring into those beautiful silver eyes again all the while knowing what he'd done to them.

* * *

Exhausted and starving, Monroe showered quickly before hopping into his car and doing the absolute worst thing he could possibly do in his weakened mental state: he drove towards the nearest McDonalds and ordered six Big Macs. Embarrassed and completely disappointed in himself, he parked in the far corner of the parking lot next to a dumpster where proceeded to shovel the burgers, one after another, into his mouth. When he was finished, he put his head down against the steering wheel and cried in shame. He supposed people were staring at him, but he felt like such a loser. Hell, he _was _a loser. He was an ugly old man in an ugly little car, blubbering like a baby in a McDonalds parking lot covered in grease and ketchup. If there had been anything worthwhile inside of him, it was gone now. Nick had seen something in him at one point, something worth knowing, and it was why Nick had stayed for so long. But it was gone now. Monroe had thrown it away. He'd thrown it all away. He ought to be alone, because only someone who did something so stupid, so self-sabotaging, deserved loneliness.

And he was afraid, oh God was he afraid to the point of trembling. He was scared of the storm coming, dragging him under, and the dark shadow lurking in the black forest behind his heart. The blood red moons, the glistening teeth. He could feel the skeleton rising, the rattling of the wolf's bones, and the fire that was going to burn away his human face like candle wax. This war he was fighting, the one he'd waged his whole life, he was losing ground faster than he could make a grab for it and it terrified him that he could never run, never far enough, because it was impossible to escape himself.

And he knew, with a sinking heart, that he was becoming the person he'd tried so hard to bury, the monster he'd discarded along with the corpse of that girl he'd killed so long ago…

She'd been young and beautiful with flowing blonde locks and blood red lips, a few years younger than himself. She'd been his last and his moment of enlightenment. As he folded the dirt over her crumpled, torn-up body, he'd looked down into her lifeless brown eyes and thought, '_She's not that different from us…'_

'_They're just humans_,' his parents had always said with a scathing bitterness, disappointment heavy in their eyes whenever they noticed his hesitance. _'Humans are nothing to cry over. Do you think wolves feel bad for the deer they kill? Or the cat, their mice? Why should a blutbad feel bad for killing a human? They're just food.'_

But Nick wasn't just food. Neither was that girl. Or the those men, or that woman… They were someone's child, mother, brother, father, son… They had fears, ambitions, just like him, just like his family. They weren't so different than the ones who hunted them.

He'd stopped eating meat after her death, but it didn't stop him from missing it; it was as much a part of him as his heritage, but things were just better without it, for his conscience anyway, not that it seemed to matter now. He'd always fought that side of himself and for a long time he believed he'd been winning, but in a single moment of lapsing judgment, he'd thrown that away too. He was letting the wolf inside him win after all this time and though he feared it, he was helpless to fight his way out of the grave forming under his feet. The same grave he'd dug for her. A place that should have been his to begin with, not hers.

* * *

Monroe drove home slowly, every mile another stone in the pit of his stomach. When he finally arrived back at the house, he trudged his way up to the second floor where he collapsed onto the naked mattress slumped into the corner. He slept for an hour or so before he woke to a razor sharp pain in his lower abdomen. He half-expected to find Nick crouched over him with a dagger sunk deep into his belly, but he was just as alone as before.

Of course he knew what was causing it and supposed he deserved it in the very least. And of course, he'd known this would happen when he was in the McDonalds' drive-thru, at least in the back of his mind he had. Regardless, he'd given in, like an addict with a pipe, because he was feeling sorry for himself. And if he'd felt sorry for himself earlier, it didn't hold a candle to how he felt now. Even though the pain was worse than the feeling he'd had days earlier, he really didn't have the will to do anything about it, not that there was much to be done except wait it out in silent suffering. He felt like simultaneously throwing up, shitting and dying right there on the floor, but he just ignored it as best he could until he eventually passed out. He woke 12 hours later feeling more drained than rested with an acidic burning in his chest and the taste of death in his mouth. He wanted to pass out again, but he forced himself to move instead.

* * *

Very quickly, Monroe found himself falling into a new, dangerously self-destructive routine in the following weeks. Seemingly out of nowhere and without warning, he would grow hopelessly depressed or enraged to the point of violence and before he could think better of it, there were trees racing past his blurred vision and the rough feel of earth under his feet. Eventually, feeling perhaps even more miserable than before, he would drag himself back home days later, sore and cut up from the woods, where he would eat like mad before passing out for 12 to 16 hours at a time. Rise, repeat.

His weight fluctuated in a way it never had before as he frequently went days without eating before he would binge at the local McDonalds. He would often pass out for long periods of time in the middle of the woods from exhaustion and dehydration, waking up feeling confused and vulnerable. His feet were often red and bloodied from running across rock and the occasional debris left behind by thoughtless hikers. He rarely noticed the pain until he'd been running for hours with glass imbedded deep into his skin. Many new, faint scars had also appeared on his body from low hanging branches and brush and whatever else he'd fallen and tumbled over in a blind storm of fury and confusion. He had yet to run into anyone, which he was thankful for, because he hadn't trimmed his beard in weeks and his hair was wild and always full of dirt and leaves; his clothes always reeked of sweat and earth and he often forgot his shoes. He was sure that if anyone were to look into his eyes, they would see the crazed animal lurking just beneath them.

He _was _becoming the wolf again, only perhaps a more deranged version, and this time he had no one to blame but himself. It felt awful and dangerous, dark and wild, yet… free. In it was a freedom he hadn't felt in a long time. But it wasn't without cost. It had an edge to it that was worse than any cage he'd ever built for himself. A razor edge that could hurt someone and one that would kill him too.

After three weeks of that crazy bullshit, something in him finally snapped and he was forced to accept that nothing was getting better. He wasn't sure exactly what it was. Maybe it was his house that was perpetually getting worse in those moments when he was seized by rage and bitterness. His inclinations towards destruction also refused to abate. He'd already leveled much of the downstairs and had torn out some of the fencing in the backyard in his urgency to get to the woods.

Or maybe it was the cashier at the McDonalds he now frequented. He'd become quite the regular and when a girl who was almost young enough to be his daughter started to flirt with him, he knew it was time to back off on the fast food. He'd seen her smoking out back on her breaks, so he knew she was at least 18, but in all honesty, she terrified him. She was short with dyed blonde hair and heavy eyeliner and had at least three piercing in each ear. And red, red, she _always _wore red. Not just her uniform, but that blood red sweatshirt hugged tight around shoulders on her breaks and her brilliant red lipstick. It was pretty pathetic for him to be afraid of a human girl, but he'd never dealt with that sort of bold, open interest before. The last thing he need was to be marked as a sexual predator by the rest of the customers; people already treated him like a pariah because he was a recluse and obviously did not have a girlfriend/wife/spouse or any apparent friends. He was just the weird loner who fixed clocks for a living.

And perhaps more importantly, she reminded him of someone else, even though her eyes were hazel-green.

Whatever had perpetuated his need for change, it had worked. His growing tendency towards violence needed to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. No, it really needed to stop immediately. And he had an idea of how he might do that, he just needed some help.

* * *

Rosalee, he hadn't seen her in a while, not since he'd stayed up for several nights in a row trying to help her find a cure for Juliette. Mostly he'd stayed away out of shame for his actions towards Nick and out of fear that he might lose himself again. What if he hurt her? He doubted he'd… that he'd… make a repeat of that night with her, but what if he grew so furious with himself or at nothing at all and destroyed her store or hit her or hurt her in some way? He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did something unforgivable to the last friend he had. She didn't deserve that. Nick hadn't deserved it either, but that hadn't stopped him.

But right now, she might be the only one who could help him. Could do something to dull these feelings of his, make them a little more tolerable and easier to deal with.

* * *

It was on a bright, early morning when Monroe got up the nerve to finally visit her. He did his best to make himself look half-way presentable before driving down to Rosalee's shop. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he was SOL on finding a parking spot anywhere near her store. It wasn't like he'd been paying much mind to the news lately or anything happening downtown, so for all he knew there was a parade that day (oh God, he hoped not). To be honest, he wasn't even sure what the date was or even the day of the week. He thought it might be a Wednesday… or a Saturday… yeah, he had no idea; his forays into the woods were definitely messing with his sense of time. Regardless of whatever might be going on, he had no choice but to begrudgingly park around the corner and walk the three blocks to the shop.

Just as he was passing an empty alleyway, he happened to glance up and see a man coming out of Rosalee's shop. At first he didn't pay much mind to it as Rosalee did provide herbal mixtures and medicines for wesen now like her brother had, but there was something about the man that registered as familiar in the back of his mind. Something about his build and stature - he couldn't quite see his face as he was turned in conversation with Rosalee. But when the man leaned in and gave her a friendly, familiar hug, Monroe felt his heart stop as he recognized the man to be Nick.

There was a moment of absolute confusion where Monroe didn't quite know where to go or what to do; his feet wanted to go one way, his body another, his head just spinning in circles. He turned a few times in place before he skirted into the alleyway and threw himself behind a dumpster. He couldn't believe how pathetic he was, hiding behind a pile of garbage to avoid facing up to what he did. And it's not like he had any idea if Nick would even pass by the place he was hiding; Monroe could be stuck there for hours!

A few minutes trickled by in silence; he was about to stand up when he saw Nick's reflection pass by in the remnants of a smashed out window in the building opposite of where he was crouching. When Nick had safely passed, Monroe pushed himself from the painful squatting position and peeked around the corner at the retreating detective. Despite Nick's apparent new hair cut, there was no mistaking that smell. It was Nick, through and through.

He watched - with eyes a little too rounded with longing - the smaller man's back until the man reached his truck and started to get in. Monroe ducked back around the corner so as not to be seen and waited in the shadows until the detective drove past. He waited several more minutes before he finally headed for Rosalee's shop. He considered leaving, just going home, but he knew the moment he got there, he'd destroy whatever was left standing before making a run for the tree line. He was dealing with his problem today. Or, well, part of it anyway; the part he could handle for the moment.

* * *

At the chime of the door opening, Rosalee looked up with a smile.

"Oh, Monroe. I was just talking to Nick."

"Oh..?" Monroe feigned surprise. He wasn't very good at it though.

"Are you two fighting?" Rosalee asked with raised brows, genuinely surprised. "I thought it was weird that Nick would come to me with his wesen questions… He usually saves those for you."

Monroe coughed uncomfortably and shuffled his feet as he walked around the store, looking at anything but her. He picked up a few bottles of this, a few of that, as though genuinely interested. She was probably frowning at his back, but he couldn't bring himself to check. He'd really been hoping not to get into it with her as he'd rather she didn't know the whole truth, but apparently from her lack of concern over the matter, Nick hadn't said anything, which didn't surprise him. But he supposed he would have to explain part of his problem if there was a chance she'd even consider helping him. With a heavy breath, he turned to face her.

"What happened?" she asked when he didn't speak. She folded her arms across her chest, a pleasant smile on her lips as she leaned a hip against the front counter. "You look embarrassed… What happened?" The grip of her arms over her chest tightened momentarily when she teased, "Did you sleep with him or something?"

Monroe jumped at her question, especially surprised at how quickly she had managed to guess. Was it a Fuchsbaue thing or a 'womanly intuition' thing? "Wait… _what_?" he practically squawked. "Where did'you…"

"Sorry, I was mostly kidding," she said with a soft chuckle. _Mostly?_ "I always thought you two had that sort of… _vibe_ about you, you know? So what really happened? Did he insult your good taste in beer by bringing by some terrible 'American crap'?"

"Um, yeah, I mean, we did, sleep together that is, well, sort of. It's… a little more complicated than just that," he rattled off in stunted incidences of speech, his brain feeling too frazzled for the task. Why was he telling her this again, he wondered. He could lie… well, not very well obviously, and he had a feeling she'd see through his words just as quickly as they left his mouth. He smoothed his hands over his hair nervously, down his face, over his beard. He began to pace around in quick circles until he heard her give a surprised laugh. He turned his attention back to her and found her eyes watching him.

"So you really _did _sleep with him…"

He didn't know what to make of her surprise or what to say. And yet she also had that look like she'd been at least partially expecting it, if not a little disappointed her assumptions had been correct. Had he been that obvious with his desire, like words scrawled across his face every time he looked at Nick? Could everyone tell he wanted nothing more than to hump the young detective into the ground like a dog in heat?

_Ugh, _Monroe thought with mortification at his own thoughts. He prayed that he wasn't _that _obvious. Before he could say anything more damning, Rosalee snorted and scrunched up her nose as though he were exaggerating the gravity of the issue.

"You think I haven't done worse things for a lot less?" she joked, though the sarcasm wasn't lost on him; he could only imagine what she meant, not that he really wanted to. He doubted she wanted him to either. "So you slept with Nick, so what?" she said with a shrug. "At least Nick's good looking and he's a great guy. On top of that, he's probably not crawling with disease."

"Why, _'cause he's good looking_?"

"The point is," she said, ignoring him. "You could do a lot worse. But from your reaction, I take it you two aren't together…?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought she might have sounded a little hopeful at the tail end of her question. There'd been some thought on his part at one time about dating her; she was a great person and was one of the most beautiful people he'd ever met. On top of that, she'd also saved his life once (like Nick had) and had shown some interest in him as well, which was always an instant plus in his book. He'd sort of thrown the whole idea onto the backburner for awhile though, even before that night with Nick. His feelings for Nick had been getting increasingly complicated and he felt guilty even contemplating a relationship with Rosalee when part of his heart would be stuck on the Grimm. It felt wrong to be with anyone when his whole heart wasn't into it, and he didn't want to be that kind of boyfriend. Hell, he'd finally managed to work through most of his feelings concerning Angelina when Nick started to shove his way in, adding in Rosalee was too much. Originally he'd planned on dealing with his unrequited feelings towards Nick before asking her out. What he hadn't planned on though was Juliette jumping off the deep-end and Nick diving in after her. He hadn't planned on taking Nick to bed and fucking his whole romantic future with Nick over in a single night. Even now, with the looming possibility of never sharing another ordinary conversation with the Grimm again, he didn't feel right pursuing Rosalee. He still loved and adored Nick, even when he felt like an utter piece of shit for what he'd done to him.

Rosalee was watching him, concern growing in her eyes for every moment of silence that passed. "Monroe..?"

"It's not quite that simple," Monroe finally said softly. "He was depressed, we got drunk…"

"Ah, drunken one-night stand, huh?" Rosalee whistled. "Pretty classy. Did you at least make him breakfast?"

Monroe threw up his hands, beginning to grow agitated with her nonchalant attitude towards the whole mess; all of which had been eating away at him for the last few weeks. He realized it was her way of dealing with her own feelings surrounding the situation, but it wasn't helping. On top of that, he didn't want to get angry at her, it wasn't her fault he was such a freak. He didn't want to get angry period, but honestly he felt like something was possessing him lately, making him feel emotions he didn't have the power to deal with properly.

"It was _not _a good night," he forced out between gritted teeth. "It was bad, _very bad_. Frankly, I wish I could forget it for the rest of my life."

"Wow, I never would have imagined Nick to be so crappy in bed-"

"Rosalee, enough!" Monroe finally yelled, unable to control himself any longer. Afraid of what he might do, he backed himself up against the door putting quite a bit of distance between them. From the look on her face, Rosalee appeared to be just as startled as he was with his sudden temper flare; her face flickered back and forth from her human to wesen one as she tried to control her own emotions.

"I'm sorry," Monroe quickly apologized before she could find a reason to blame herself for his outburst. "I shouldn't have yelled. The thing is, I…" He wrung his hands miserably as he coaxed the words out of himself. "What happened between Nick and I, it wasn't just some fun, drunken one-night stand. I… hurt him. Really badly. And I'm not talking - it wasn't… I…"

It was really difficult for Monroe to find the right words, or any for that matter, that made him look in any way redeemable. But there was honestly nothing in this world that existed that could justify his own actions. What finally did come out of his mouth was hardly more than a scarce whisper.

"I raped him."

If there was any sound in the room, it had fled at his admission. He fought with himself not to run out the front door like a coward, even though it seemed like the best option available. He had to eventually own up to the truth, so he might as well start with someone it didn't affect as crucially.

When he finally willed himself to look up, he found Rosalee staring at him in stunned silence. Her eyes were rounded with shock and her forehead creased in discomfort. What he hadn't expected though was the little bit of reluctance to accept his words at face value.

She opened her mouth slowly as though carefully sorting through her words for the right ones. "Nick didn't seem that… _are you sure_? I mean he was depressed, of course, but with everything that's happened lately… Are you _sure _that's what really happened..? Are you sure you…?"

Monroe was surprised at her doubt. What did she expect Nick to do, run right over and tell her Monroe had raped him? Or did she think that Nick had wanted it that way? Did she even know how violent Blutbaden sex could be? Not that he particularly liked that kind, but mix in some alcohol and all bets were off.

"Yes," Monroe quickly asserted, his voice catching a little. "There was… blood. And he was crying. Screaming, more like it at times. It was awful. I couldn't stop myself… I didn't want to stop," he murmured, looking down at his shaking hands. "After, I- I wished I would have. Nick didn't deserve that. I've always wanted to protect him, but I-"

Rosalee stood there speechless, her head shaking back and forth a little in shock.

"How, _how could you do that to him_..? I thought he was your friend…"

"_He is! _I love him, I really do, I mean, well… it's just, with the alcohol, like I said, I just couldn't stop… well, I wanted to. I really did. But when I smelled the blood, everything just blurred together after awhile and… I really didn't mean to hurt him…" Monroe choked out, the emotion starting to burn behind his eyes.

"Did you apologize to him at least?"

"No-" At her look he quickly cried, "He was gone when I woke up, alright?! I didn't have a chance!"

"You let him _walk home_?"

"He had his truck… _What was I supposed to do? Make him breakfast in bed and hope he'd forgive me?_"

"For starters, a nice 'I'm sorry' would have sufficed. Monroe…! How could you do that to Nick of all people_? _Didn't you say you.. loved him? Wasn't that what you just said?"

"Yes…" When she raised her brow, he confessed, "He was so lonely and vulnerable and I've been wanting to sleep with him for so long, it was so much easier when he was drunk because he wouldn't say no. I thought I'd never have another chance. He'd never say yes to me otherwise…"

"So you _raped _him because he doesn't see you as more than just a _friend_?"

"It wasn't supposed to be this way…!" he whined, cringing at his own bitchy tone.

"All your attempts to convince me you really care about him have failed so far… I know you do, deep down. _What were you thinking_?"

"I wasn't! I wasn't thinking, okay?! If I could take it all back, I would. If I could erase his memory somehow…" he trailed off as a sudden thought occurred to him; he shot her a hopeful look.

"If you're thinking there's some _magical elixir out there that'll solve all of your problems_, there isn't. You're going to have to fix this the old fashioned way."

"Which is also…"

"Yes. The hard way." She folded her arms over her chest and gave him a stern look. Monroe ran his fingers through his hair several times, feeling anxious like a cornered animal. He wanted to cry, but inside he just felt hollow, he couldn't even manage any other emotion than emptiness.

"I didn't come here to tell you this," he said softly, "I came here because I… I'm starting to revert back to how I was. I'm finding I'm having a harder time controlling myself."

"What do you want me to do about it?" she asked slowly, suddenly suspicious.

"I think… I don't care how much it costs at this point, if you could sell me a bit of…" he cleared his throat, almost too ashamed to bring himself to even say it, especially to Rosalee, "Maybe could I buy some 'J' from you?"

Whatever kindness left in her heart instantly sizzled as a fury he'd never seen before seized her. Her face devolved to its wesen form, her hazel-brown eyes narrowed into angry slits.

"What did you just ask me?" she growled, suddenly fierce. "You want me, _me,_ to sell you '_J'?_ I can't believe you just asked me that! Of course not! I struggled for _seven years _on that stuff! You know that! You think I'm just going to let you throw your life away on some stupid drug because you screwed up and now you're depressed?! How is 'J' going to help you fix any of this with Nick?!"

"_Then what am I supposed to do_?!" Monroe boomed back, glass bottles of herbs clattering against each other on the shelves as they reverberated with the sound. "How the hell am I supposed to fix it then?!"

"You could _try _an apology."

"How the hell do you even apologize for something like that?! 'Hey Nick, sorry about the whole _rape thing_. Sucks, huh?'" Monroe sneered, his face screwed up in disgust at the thought. Rosalee's whole face went red with anger. She stalked up to him and stuck a hard finger into his chest.

"You can get down on your goddamn knees," she ground out, her voice in a low growl, "and say to Nick, 'I'm a piece of _shit_ and I don't deserve your forgiveness. What I did to you was _wrong _and I'm sorry I did it. I don't expect you to _ever _want to see my face again, but I want you to know that I'll regret hurting you for the rest of my life. I'm sorry.'"

"That's…"

"It's certainly better than what you _have _been trying."

Which was nothing. From the bite in her words, he could tell her anger wasn't _just _for Nick anymore. It wasn't that he felt her version of an apology was too over the top, no, he'd have to do a lot more begging if he ever hoped to be in Nick's favor again. He just knew he had no excuses left at this point; there were no reasons why he shouldn't be groveling on his knees at the Grimm's feet at that very moment.

"I want you to leave right now," Rosalee said when Monroe failed to speak; her voice was a little softer than it had been, but still maintained a hard edge. "I want you to go to Nick's house and tell him what I just told you. Today's his day off. He'll be there. Maybe he'll shoot you in the face or maybe he'll forgive you, but nothing will get better until you apologize to him. You know that."

Monroe sighed. "So… you really won't give me 'J,' not even a little? I wasn't going to smoke it. I was going to take it as prescribed. It'll calm me down…"

"No. I can mix you up some tea that will help you sleep -"

"No, thanks. I already have some at home. Thought it was worth the try though."

"Well, you thought wrong."

"Apparently."

Monroe shuffled his feet once before going to head out the door. He was stopped by Rosalee's voice.

"Monroe?"

"Yeah?" he asked, hopeful that she'd perhaps changed her mind. However, she said:

"Don't you dare go out looking for that crap. It _will _destroy you. Just deal with your issues. It's hard, I know, but it's not worth it, believe me."

Monroe nodded his head once as he said, "I do," before heading out the door.

Monroe didn't go to Nick's house. Instead he went crashing through the woods, running from himself as much as he was running from the guilt and the shame haunting his steps, clinging to his heels. His only excuse was the same one he'd carried his whole life.

He was a coward.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read. :)


	5. ABSOLUTION: WISHES

A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.

* * *

CHAPTER 5: Absolution I - Wishes

When Nick arrived home from Rosalee's shop, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom where he stripped down to his underwear before crawling into bed. He wasn't particularly tired, he just liked the feel of the comforter enveloping him into a safe cocoon of warmth.

At the shop, he'd asked Rosalee to identify an unknown wesen based on a picture he'd drawn. Asking her was far less time consuming than searching through endless tomes of creature types. He couldn't quite remember what she'd called it, but it appeared to be some sort of friendly troll type, hard as that was to believe.

Even though she was just as knowledgeable as Monroe was in regards to wesen, perhaps even more so depending on his question, talking with her just wasn't the same. She was certainly as friendly as Monroe, but he still missed asking the older man instead because the blutbad always had some funny story to go along with his explanation or some other tangent to travel down. Somehow those long conversations would have a habit of devolving into dinner and sometimes even a movie on those nights when Juliette was working late and he had no reason to go home.

His reason for visiting Rosalee to identify the wesen had really only been an excuse though as he wasn't in the middle of a case at the moment. The real reason he'd gone was less straight forward. He'd gone for the sake of gathering information, but of a different sort.

From what he gleamed from his conversation with Rosalee, she hadn't spoken to Monroe either in the weeks that had followed that night. He hadn't really touched on the fact that they weren't speaking themselves, he'd just played along that he was curious to know whether the two of them had taken that final leap from friends to more. He wasn't oblivious to the way they looked at each other and he knew deep down that they'd make a good couple despite the fact that he honestly hated the idea. If it weren't for his own conflicting feelings for Monroe, he would have given them his blessing from the get go and part of him wished it was how he felt. He wished he could be genuinely happy for the two of them instead of feeling secretly jealous every time they shared a soft look or words that weren't meant for him to hear. He wished he was only jealous because he didn't always have his best friend's undivided attention and was just childish like that. He wished he wasn't attracted to the blutbad in the way that he was because things would be so much easier if he wasn't.

Because if he was indifferent, it wouldn't sting every time he was forced to admit that Rosalee was the far better choice for Monroe. Far better than he'd ever be.

First of all, Nick was socially retarded. Well, only sometimes. He wasn't _that _bad, he just wasn't good at the whole '_subtlety_' thing, but at least he was aware of it. It wasn't necessarily a deal breaker or anything, but it sure didn't help his case any. He was good at reading people, sure, situations as well, but he knew he didn't always choose the correct reciprocating action and tended to rub people the wrong way because of it. To make matters worse, there were all those unsaid rules governing interactions between wesen that made it even _more _difficult for Nick to know when he'd overstepped boundaries and said or did something that would make anyone else ashamed. To Rosalee's advantage, she knew what it was like to be a wesen and understood all those subtle social rules he would never be able to memorize or completely comprehend. For that reason alone, Rosalee didn't seem to annoy Monroe quite the way Nick managed just by breathing at times. Sure he teased Monroe, messed around with him just to get his goat, but sometimes he managed to piss off the blutbad without even trying. He wasn't always sure what he'd done to deserve the older man's irritation and it often left him utterly confused.

Secondly, even if it was possible to ignore his own shortcomings in the personality department, he couldn't ignore how well they complemented each other. From what he'd seen, the two of them worked rather well together and played off of each other's talents and knowledge. It wasn't like he and Monroe didn't, but at least with Rosalee, Monroe was farther away from the danger and seemed to enjoy spending time with the fuchsbau on top of that. He wasn't privy to many opportunities to observe them together, but he'd gathered from declined invitations for beers and dinner that Monroe enjoyed helping out at the shop rather often. Obviously the two had a lot more in common than he'd originally thought if they could spend several afternoons in a row together. Monroe always got sort of snappy with him after awhile whenever they spent long periods of time together. At first he'd attributed it to Monroe's naturally difficult nature, but he was beginning to wonder about that. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he wasn't picking up on something and it was Monroe's way of letting him know he was being a dick. Nick had no way to telling; he was the outsider after all. It would be _years _before he'd have a considerable grasp of the world he now lived in. A world both Rosalee and Monroe had lived in since birth. He couldn't deny that Rosalee was just more relatable than him in that department and therefore a lot easier for the blutbad to be around.

And of course, there was the one thing about Rosalee that was undeniably the most crucial of all. It was perhaps the one advantage she had over Nick that he could do nothing about and could never surpass with hard work.

Rosalee was a woman.

As far as Nick knew, Monroe tended to lean in that direction, so it wasn't a stretch to recognize her superiority in that department. Sure, Monroe had slept with him, but it didn't mean much considering Nick had pretty much been on the same level as a blow-up doll that night. Even worse, there'd been no real indication that Monroe had even been _coherent _that he was fucking Nick at the time and not some nameless, faceless woman of his drunken imagining. Whether it was intentional or not, he hadn't kissed Nick once or touched him in a way that would have made it impossible for him to ignore Nick's maleness. Regardless if the whole thing had been a favor to Nick or just the means of an outlet for Monroe's own sexual frustrations, one thing had been clear: it wasn't based on physical attraction. Nick could have been anyone; it hadn't mattered that it _was _him until afterwards. It was Nick who'd been the one to initiate everything; the one to tear off Monroe's jeans and come onto him. He'd been the one to open himself up to Monroe, not the other way around. And not to mention how upset Monroe had been afterwards. Almost pathetically upset, like his grandma had died because he'd had sex with a man. 'Traumatized' was the only word Nick could think of to describe his reaction. If there was anything about Nick that repelled Monroe the most, it was that damned Y chromosome built into his very existence.

Though it saddened Nick to think he never even had a chance, he supposed there were some direct benefits to him with Monroe dating Rosalee. He didn't particularly like the thought of any of his friends in danger and even though it was far more enjoyable to do his Grimm duties when he had someone watching his back, he preferred their safety over his own comfort any day. He supposed if Monroe had someone at home worrying about him, he might think twice about jumping into the fray. As it was, he'd already planned on dialing back Monroe's involvement in his cases anyway.

Nick also wanted his friends to be happy, and Rosalee seemed to accomplish that for Monroe. Nick was lonely, he couldn't deny that, but it wouldn't last forever. And even though he no longer had Juliette, at least Monroe could be happy. At least Monroe could have someone to keep him company at night and love him despite his flaws…

All things considered, Monroe dating Rosalee could only be a good thing, right?

But goddamn it, why did the very thought have to hurt so much?

If Monroe ever forgave him, he'd totally shove all his feelings out the window in an instant and cheer them on, if not a bit begrudgingly at first. He'd keep those feelings hidden until they subsided and he could genuinely feel happy for the two. Rosalee was a fantastic woman and Monroe an even better guy; they deserved each other and they both deserved happiness after all the difficulty the two had suffered throughout in their lives. He should be happy for them. He really should…

His chest clenched involuntarily in a sudden stab of pain. It physically _hurt _to have his heart broken the way it was, both by Juliette _and _Monroe. It wasn't a first for him, but it'd been awhile since he'd become so attached to other people. The last time he'd felt this way, he was mourning the loss of his parents. He'd been devastated at Marie's death as well, but at least he'd had Juliette then to comfort him. Now he had no one. Well, that wasn't true. He wasn't completely alone, but he doubted Hank would be up for cuddling. He couldn't help but chuckle a little at the thought of Hank's horrified face if he asked. He never would, but it was still pretty funny, just the thought.

His chest suddenly clenched again so he reached behind him to pull the body pillow he'd recently purchased flush against his back; it wasn't quite the same as a person, but he liked the comforting feel of it against his spine. About a week ago he'd bought it online after seeing quite a few of them in stores. He'd come very close to buying one every time he'd gone shopping, but could never bring himself to do it in the end. There was just something about a man buying a body pillow that seemed… he wasn't sure. He just knew he was too embarrassed to buy one _not _anonymously. It was a stupid thing to be embarrassed about, he realized, and it wasn't like the store clerks would honestly care or remember past a few minutes. He was one customer in thousands. For all they knew, he was buying it for his girlfriend… or to _pretend _it was his girlfriend, which was what he was actually doing.

Not that it was limited to just Juliette. He took turns pretending it was Juliette and other nights pretending it was Monroe. Sleeping alone had become too depressing and made him anxious. Before he'd dated Juliette he'd been used to sleeping alone, not that he hadn't had other girlfriends along the way. Those relationships had never lasted quite as long and three years was a long time to get used to another's warm body under the covers curled up at his side.

Perhaps it was a good thing Monroe wasn't around; it wouldn't be right to treat him like a replacement for Juliette. Nevertheless, Nick just wished they could talk, just as friends. He'd be fine with them remaining that way for the rest of their relationship, however long that lasted. He just earnestly hoped there was more of that to be had. He wasn't ready to let go of the other man just yet. He was only willing to let go of one person at a time, and he was currently working on Juliette. Losing Monroe at the same time was too much for him to handle; it just hurt too much.

With that thought, he turned onto his other side and burrowed his face into the soft pillow, feeling even more lonely. He wrapped his arms and legs around the length of cotton and warm fiber as he wished to hold the older man instead. He let his mind trickle to unwanted places as he wondered if Monroe missed him at all or if he was just glad to be finally rid of him. He knew he'd been annoying, always overstepping those invisible boundaries and asking for far too much all of the time. Nick wasn't stupid; he could always hear the aggravation in Monroe's voice when he would show up unannounced. After awhile, Nick thought Monroe had begun to like helping him out with the Grimm stuff, but it wasn't his duty and as he'd alluded to, it was a possibility he could be ousted by his family for even associating with Nick. Not to mention the threat to him physically by anything that wanted to hurt Nick personally.

Would it be better for Monroe not to be friends with him anymore? Nick would absolutely die without the blutbad by his side; well no, _not literally_, but he'd suffer for a long time to be thrown away so easily. He could do all the Grimm work by himself, but he would be so lonely without Monroe.

He supposed this was how Aunt Marie had gone through life after she'd come into her heritage. He couldn't remember her dating anyone after he'd gone to live with her, and he couldn't remember any close friends. He'd always assumed she just preferred it that way. Had she felt this alone too? It made Nick feel horrible for the way he'd treated her words. Not only because he'd hurt Juliette in the process, but because she'd known all along how depressingly lonesome it felt. She'd known what it was like to have only a pillow to hold and only the covers to embrace you back. Pillows certainly couldn't love you, but at least they couldn't die because of you. She'd only said what she had to protect him and help him protect the ones he loved as well. If he could go back, he would have listened to her and he would have stayed by her side, just so she knew she wasn't completely alone in those last hours of her long, painful life.

* * *

It was several hours later when Nick grunted softly and rolled over to nestle his face deeper into the pillow still crushed in the clutch of his arms. He lay still for a few moments before he shot up in bed, his eyes blinking rapidly several times as he realized he'd somehow managed to fall asleep on accident. He sat there for a moment feeling rather strangely refreshed. He couldn't quite remember the last time he'd slept so deeply, but apparently he'd needed it as he felt more rested than he had in ages. He didn't remember at what point he'd drifted off and he certainly didn't remember dreaming, which he was thankful for. His dreams of late were nothing but nightmares so a void of darkness was welcome at this point. Honestly from the way he felt, he could have been asleep for only a few minutes or several days; when he finally rolled over enough to check, he was surprised to find it was a little past one in the afternoon. He groaned internally when he realized how impossible it'd be to sleep later that night; something he would come to regret when the morning came and he had to go in for work.

He supposed he could rent a movie. Two weeks before he'd caved and unpacked the TV and DVD player. The house hadn't sold yet, so his move out date was iffy. Lydia didn't like the thought of the house sitting empty so she'd asked him to stay until they had a definite buyer. Originally Nick had planned on moving to an apartment or finding a rental house, but when he was out on one of his long, meandering drives east towards the Dalles, he'd spotted this beautiful - albeit rundown - house on the outskirts of Troutdale. He'd instantly fallen in love with it and was pleased to find it for sale for reasonably cheap. It would take a lot of renovating, but he figured it would take his mind off of everything else going on. He had yet to move any of his stuff over there since he didn't know when he'd be officially moving out. The house had a broken window or two and it had evidence of local teenagers using the place for parties. He didn't particularly like the idea of anyone breaking in and stealing his stuff, not that he had much to steal, so he would wait to move everything when Lydia finally gave him a firm date.

Moving would be good for him. As it was, he was absolutely ecstatic about his new house and it gave him something positive to think about instead of all the shit going on in his head. He'd told everyone on the force about the house and they'd all congratulated him and chipped in to get him a rather large gift card to IKEA as a house warming present. He had a feeling their generosity stemmed from what happened with Juliette, but it warmed his heart to know that they cared and it certainly helped him to remember that he wasn't entirely alone. Hank, Wu and a few of his other officer buddies had even offered to help him move and get settled. Unfortunately, he'd completely forgotten to mention it to Rosalee that morning as he'd been too distracted wondering about Monroe…

Monroe… he really should just go over to his house and see him. Talk to him. He was dying to tell the older man about the new house or even to just have a normal conversation with him. Waiting around for the other man to make the first move was getting to be too hard and perhaps, once again, he was doing things the wrong way. Perhaps waiting for Monroe to take action was only making the other man more furious with him. Maybe if he'd gone over the day after to apologize, he would be out with the blutbad at that very moment, shopping for food to cook for dinner instead of laying in bed thinking about it. Or maybe he'd be lazing around on Monroe's couch instead, listening to some classical jazz and sipping some fancy wine he'd never heard of before as he listened to Monroe go on about something he would never completely understand but still loved hearing about regardless.

And maybe he would be feeling a helluva lot better and not so damn miserable all the time.

Well, he supposed it was decided then. He would head over to Monroe's immediately and resolve this once and for all. Monroe was likely to still be pissed at him for stringing it out for so long and they'd probably fight a bit, but then he could apologize for being a dick and inevitably Monroe would probably apologize for avoiding him as well, and then they could settle back into their comfortable friendship once more like nothing had happened.

It was wishful thinking, but Nick sort of needed that to get him out of bed and into the shower.

* * *

Stepping out of the shower a half hour later, he couldn't help but examine himself in the mirror. He still looked like death warmed over, but he'd been sleeping a bit more so he didn't look nearly as sickly and the dark patches under his eyes had cleared up mostly. He still had a problem remembering to eat so he'd continued to drop weight left and right, but he didn't look dangerously thin yet. He was starting to look like he had a problem though and he honestly didn't need people commenting on it. If Monroe would have him, he'd take him out to dinner as an apology. Somewhere nice, but not romantic. Maybe a family restaurant or a little hole-in-the-wall. Or anywhere really. As long as he could have dinner with his best friend again, he'd take him anywhere.

He considered shaving the scruff off his face, but decided against it. It was good for hiding his recent weight problems and when he'd seen Rosalee, she hadn't said anything. She'd commented on his hair briefly - he could tell by the way her eyes rounded that she'd been surprised when she'd first seen him - but she had failed to notice the thinness in his face. Maybe she had, but she hadn't said anything. He could hear Monroe's voice in his head lecturing him about keeping up his strength and how he needed to eat if he expected to fight off Reapers. He doubted their casual conversation would go in that direction during dinner, but if Monroe started harping at him about taking better care of himself, Nick was likely to snap at him back and he really didn't want to put their friendship in an even rockier position. It was fragile as it was. So he left his scraggly pre-beard alone.

He did, however, shave his neck and the uneven patches on his cheeks. The least he could do was look half-way presentable. At least he didn't have to worry about his hair; it was still short and cropped close to his skull. Everyone had been surprised when he'd shown up for work on the Monday that followed that horrible weekend. He supposed a lot of his coworkers wondered if he'd finally fallen off the deep end, not that he blamed them for thinking that way. He'd looked absolutely dreadful that Monday morning since he'd spent most of the weekend painting and had failed to get much sleep at all. Wu had been the first one to say anything nice about it. It'd been in his usual sarcastic way, but he'd declared to anyone who would listen that Nick had finally seen how fashion forward Wu was and decided to follow his lead. Everyone had laughed, including Nick, and he'd felt so much better just being around his work friends again.

In the end, he'd decided to keep his hair short in the hopes of deterring any interested suitors. He wasn't particularly attractive with almost no hair and he knew it. Hank and Wu had already tried to take him out several times to hook him up, but when Nick finally explained to Hank his reasons why he wasn't interested in getting involved with anyone at the moment, the older man had understood and promised to lay off the matchmaking. During that particularly uncomfortable conversation, Nick, entirely on accident, had said in passing, "I've had my heart broken twice in the last month, the last thing I need right now is a new girlfriend."

After he'd said it, he felt his stomach drop out from under his feet. Luckily, Hank hadn't seemed to notice his slipup. If he had, he didn't say anything, not that Hank would have a reason to consider for even a moment Monroe's name. Hank had no idea Nick was even bisexual. As far as Hank knew, he'd found some other girl after Juliette's 'diagnosis' and had broken up with her too. And he was perfectly fine with that misassumption as his sexuality was a whole different mess he didn't want to get into. If he ever had a reason to come out, Hank would certainly be one of the first to know; but for now that was a can of worms he wasn't willing to open. He had other things he needed to concentrate on, and that wasn't one of them.

Right now he had to concentrate on making himself look decent enough to show his face at Monroe's again. He pulled on a pair of nice slacks and a dress shirt, donned a tie and some cologne before heading down the stairs to grab his jacket and his keys. It was too early to ask Monroe to dinner, but by the time they were done fighting, it would be about right. He slipped on his shoes and headed for his car.

* * *

When he pulled up to the little blue house, he parked across the street and sat for a moment while letting out a heavy sigh. Well, Monroe's car was parked in the driveway, that was a good sign. It meant he was home at least. Nick sat in his truck for awhile as he steeled himself for the confrontation and went through the apology he'd written, again and again in his mind.

'_Monroe, I'm sorry I forced you to do something you didn't want to do. I realize you probably did it for me because you're my friend and maybe even because I saved your life. I want you to know that I didn't jump into the ring so that you'd owe me for the rest of your life. I did it because you're my friend and I care about you. I hope you still want to be friends and I promise that what happened the other night will never happen again because you're my friend and you're like a brother to me. I hope you'll be willing to forgive me and I hope you enjoyed the wine I left for you.'_

His brain stuttered over the brother part as it was a complete lie, which was probably obvious to anyone with a pulse, but hoped Monroe would buy it long enough for them to get past that night. Eventually Nick's feelings would subside and he'd be able to look at Monroe that way. Until then, he'd have to watch where his eyes landed and make a mental note every time his mind strayed where it shouldn't.

He approached the front door with a confidence he didn't quite feel and rapped his knuckles against the familiar wood a few times before stepping back. He waited several minutes in silence; when the door failed to open, he knocked again and called out the older man's name. He was once again met with absolute silence. It seemed… odd.

He moved from the door along the porch and peeked in through the front plate-glass window. He could see through the slim part in the curtains that the TV was on and was flickering blue against the dark downstairs walls. It was almost three in the afternoon so it seemed odd for the downstairs to be so dark. Was he watching a movie? Seemed a little early, but he supposed the man was bound by his own schedule and time wasn't really a constraint for him like it was for Nick.

Nick paced back to the door and pounded a little harder this time; he could detect the sound of the TV now through the door and gave Monroe the benefit of the doubt that he probably couldn't hear him over the blare. Maybe he was even asleep.

"Monroe!" he called as he pounded on the door again. "It's Nick, we should talk."

Once again, there was no reply. He didn't really expect Monroe to still be this upset with him; he figured after nearly a month of distance, the older man would be willing to at least look him in the face. Apparently that wasn't the case. Nick regretted not dousing himself in wolfsbane; at least then Monroe wouldn't know it was him and wouldn't know _not _to open the door.

Regardless, Nick wouldn't be ignored so easily. He continued to pound against the door, shouting Monroe's name several times, cycling unconsciously through angry growling and pleading cries. Eventually it became impossible for him to ignore the reality that Monroe didn't want to see him. If he was willing to let his house become the spectacle of the neighborhood, obviously their friendship was no longer a priority for him. There was no way he could be so completely oblivious to the racket Nick was making as several people had stopped to stare and even a few had come out of their houses to watch Nick make a fool of himself. He wondered briefly what they thought of him, if they could even associate a meaning between his frantic pounding on the door and his frenzied apologies.

When Nick finally gave up, he felt drained and weak. His hands hurt from banging against the hard wood and his head was even beginning to pound. Part of him wanted to crawl into bed again, but it wouldn't make things any better. He couldn't spend the rest of his life curled up in a ball like a wounded animal feeling sorry for himself; eventually he'd have to move on.

He gave one last hopeful look at the door, willing it to open, before he turned and headed down the porch steps. He didn't want to think that was it, but all signs were starting to point in that direction. He knew he would continue for a while longer to give the blutbad the benefit of the doubt, but if the other man wanted to continue along this route, well then… He'd think about that later. For now, he was going to drive himself home, make himself a cup of coffee and maybe something to eat, and then sit down to work on his latest painting. It wasn't of anything in particular, and the only emotion he'd tied to it was the ache of loneliness and longing. He had a feeling he'd be _quite inspired _by the time he got home.

He'd just made it to the sidewalk when he happened to glance over at the dull blue mailbox several feet away. The week before, he'd stopped by and had done his best to cram a bottle of wine into it in the hopes of getting back on the blutbad's good side. The bottle was of a particularly expensive brand of local wine he'd seen on the few shopping trips Nick had gone along with the blutbad. Monroe always showed an interest in trying it, but he'd always passed on actually purchasing it. Perhaps it'd been his hint for Nick to buy it for him as payment for the blutbad's constant help. Whatever the case might be, Nick decided to buy it for him as an apology, and to show how much he paid attention to the things Monroe said.

He approached the mailbox slowly, hoping that when he opened it, there'd be some sort of sign. Maybe Monroe had left him a note in there, or a letter. Maybe he hadn't answered the door because Nick had failed to read the letter. Maybe it would tell him to call first so they could talk about it before they had to actually see each other face to face. Even in his brain it sounded stupid, but he would be willing to settle for anything at this point. Anything to tell him there was some hope left.

When he pulled open the door to the mailbox, he was more irritated than sad to find the bottle still wedged into the metal box, untouched. His fingers clenched against the lip of the door before he closed it again slowly with barely contained anger. He stood there for a few moments, his entire arm trembling with rage as he tried to pretend he hadn't seen it in there. He opened the door again shortly before slamming it closed once more. He repeated this action several times with increasing speed and ferocity until he feared he would rip the door right off its hinges.

Frustrated, he pulled out the bottle and saw the quickly scrawled note he'd written still taped to the side. _'I'M SORRY - NICK.' _Apparently it hadn't been enough. Monroe had probably taken one look at his lame apology before shoving the bottle back in. At least the man wasn't immature enough to drink the wine beforereplacing the empty bottle to make a point.

Nick started to stalk back towards his car when he stopped. There was a moment where he seriously considered tossing the bottle right through the front window when he caught himself. What? Was he 10 years old throwing a temper tantrum? Monroe didn't want to see him; that still didn't give him a reason to vandalize his house. Not to mention he was a police officer. What a fantastic way to lose his job _and _get arrested!

He stomped back to his car with the bottle tucked under one arm; he revved his engine several times before he tore down the street like a complete asshole, getting flipped off a few times in the process. He just hoped no one reported him for reckless driving; it was certainly the last thing he needed.

* * *

He was still more than a little irritable when he arrived home, but at least he felt a little more under control of himself. He wasn't sure if Monroe's reaction was the result of his own tactlessness - was it a tacky way to apologize? or the result of the blutbad's lingering feelings towards the whole situation. Whichever, Monroe wasn't interested in patching things up. That was more than apparent now.

Nick parked in his usual spot in front of the house even though there was really no reason why he couldn't park in the driveway now that Juliette was gone; without really thinking about it, he just parked there out of habit. As he was heading up the walk to the house, he was stopped by the sight of a couple descending the stairs from the porch.

"Can I help you with something…?" Nick asked slowly, feeling unsure for a moment. Their eyes lit up when they saw him approaching.

"Hi, my name's Karen Montgomery," the woman said as she approached to shake Nick's hand.

"Nick Burkhardt," Nick replied out of conditioned courtesy as he offered his own hand. He was still confused as to who they were, but took that moment to examine them as they explained themselves. As far as he could tell, they weren't wesen, just regular humans. The woman was relatively tall with medium length brown hair. She wore rather expensive looking clothing and smelled rather nice. She smiled with perfect white teeth as she nodded her head at her husband: a tall dark-blond man who was just as well dressed as she was. He stuck out his hand as well to shake Nick's.

"And this is my husband, Eric," the woman, Karen, continued in a friendly tone. "We were interested in seeing the house…? I called the owner, Lydia, she said it would be alright."

"Oh," Nick said as the call from the night before from Juliette's sister finally popped into his head. "I'm sorry, I was just out on a errand. Please, come in. I'm sorry, it's sort of a mess with the boxes laying around…"

"Oh, not a problem," the woman assured him. "Things always seem to be the messiest right before you move. Will you be saying in Portland?" she asked as Nick unlocked the door and led them inside.

"Well, I found a house out past Troutdale. It's a bit of a drive to work but I think it'll be a nice change from the city."

"Oh, well that's nice. Where do you work?" she asked with interest as she followed Nick inside, her husband right behind her shoulder.

"Portland PD-"

"Oh, you're a police officer?" the man said suddenly, completely interrupting Nick. "My father was in the army."

"Oh," Nick replied slowly, not entirely sure why that was necessarily related. "Must be used to moving a lot, huh?" Nick joked.

The man didn't say anything in response, just nodded in a sort of dismissive way before walking around the front foyer as though Nick had ceased to be of any interest. He poked at the few remaining trinkets scattered around before he stared rather blankly at the walls. Perhaps he was thinking of where they might hang things; that or he was just overly eccentric. Suddenly the woman gasped shrilly which caused Nick to default to his normal, protect-civilians-at-all-costs mode and disregard the man completely. He hurried as quickly as possible to where she was standing to see what had startled her.

"Are you an artist?" she exclaimed with childish delight as she spun around to stare at him with wide, enchanted eyes. Nick skidded to a stop in front of her as his brain tried to decipher her words.

_Oh, the paintings, _Nick thought as he saw she was standing in front of the few finished ones propped up against the walls.

"It's just a hobby," Nick said slowly, not quite sure where things were going.

"They're just _fabulous_! Eric, honey, come see these," she called excitedly to her husband. The man shuffled his way into the room a moment later and stopped in front of the painting she seemed to like the most, nodding a few times in that disjointed way of his. "See, it's like those Regner's we bought last year. Dear," she suddenly said, motioning to Nick. "We would love to buy this one, how much?"

He quirked his head at the question, not quite sure if he'd heard her correctly. The painting in question was the first one he'd done when he'd been in an almost crazed state of mind. He glanced from the painting to her expectant face and wondered briefly if she was teasing him. Certainly it wasn't the absolute _worst _thing he had ever painted, but it wasn't by far a masterpiece in any dimension.

"It's not really…"

"I absolutely _must _have it," she stressed rather quickly as though the matter was of great importance. "Name your price and it's yours. We see ourselves as ardent art collectors, and I just _know _I will regret it for the rest of my life if I walk out this door without this painting in hand."

"Alright," Nick agreed with some hesitance, still wondering if it was some sort of joke at his expense. It wasn't that he was particularly fond of the painting, in fact, he wouldn't mind never seeing it again in his life. It only reminded him of things he'd rather not think about. He was just… startled by her intensity towards it. But then again, different strokes for different folks, literally; apparently his mish-mash of vomited colors struck a cord with this strange woman who seemed like the type to endlessly harass him until he gave in and sold it to her.

"I've never sold any of my paintings before…" Nick confessed. _And God, it's so ugly, _he thought with horror._ I was just about to paint over it._ But if he had to name a price… He didn't even know where to start. Considering he'd paid nearly $50 for the canvas - it was hand stretched - and if he calculated in the paints, $60 seemed like a reasonable price… The 'art' was garbage, of course, so he'd feel guilty passing it off as that. Even charging $60 seemed like overkill, but if she was as dedicated of a collector as she claimed to be, she must know how expensive canvases were.

He was about to open his mouth to give his price when she burst out, "Will $1600 be enough? I'm willing to negotiate."

Nick blinked as what she said slowly sank into his mind. "_What_?" he croaked.

"$1800? I'm willing to go to $2000 if need be."

Nick looked at her, hoping to decipher some rationality in her blue, frantic eyes. She just looked increasingly desperate so he turned his attention to her husband and was shocked to find a look of equal expectancy in his normally blasé gaze. _Are these people for real? _he wondered. Even really _good _paintings he'd seen in galleries went for a lot less.

"Uh, that's…"

"$2500, and that's my final offer!" she blurted, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as though she was as startled as Nick was. Nick threw up his own hands to stop her from changing her mind and offering up even more obscene amounts of money. He felt bad for her considering her pitiful ability to barter; no doubt she'd been taken advantage of by several inconsiderate artists in the past because of her enthusiasm. Luckily for her, Nick had a conscience.

"I was thinking a lot lower," he said in that calm voice he reserved for jumpers. "I was thinking-"

He wanted to slap himself when he considered saying '$500' out of greediness. He was embarrassed when he had to literally force himself to give his original price of $60. There was a moment of absolute silence before the two burst into almost hysterical laughter.

"You're sweet," the woman said as she reached out and patted Nick's cheek with the palm of her hand. Nick felt his cheeks flush in humiliation as she couldn't be more than 10 years his senior. "But really now, dear, how much..?" She had that look again, the one of expectation, and her check book in her hand suddenly.

"Um, $500..?" Nick offered, hoping that would suffice. Was she insane?

She shook her head in disappointment as she began to write. "I'll give you $1000. You really shouldn't let collectors take advantage of you, darling. They'll suck you dry."

_Who's taking advantage of who here? _Nick thought with irritation as he took the proffered slip of paper from the woman's hands. _'$1000,' she really wrote it. _

"Now, you had better cash that check or I'll be hunting you down personally." Nick didn't doubt that. "I certainly wouldn't want to steal from a police officer. Won't win any friends in the neighborhood that way."

"No, I suppose not," Nick said as he forced a laugh, still feeling uncomfortable with the whole deal. Sure the house was nice, but could these two really afford to throw $1000 down on a painting worth not even a tenth of that? He'd also heard from Lydia that these two had children. _Say goodbye to your college education, kids, _he thought as he crammed the check into his back pocket.

"Oh, I just _love it_!" she exclaimed as she picked up the painting to enthuse over it some more. She started glancing fervently around the room, her hands and the painting following as though imagining where she might hang it if they really did buy the house. Without warning, she suddenly turned it in her hands and held it up sideways; Nick was about to comment when he really looked at it. Beyond the angle, there was something else different about it, something… better. It was still ugly to him and he still couldn't understand why she would be willing to pay $1000 for that piece of garbage in the first place, but turned on its side, it almost looked like a bird caught in flight or a flower swallowed up in a storm of colors. Perhaps it wasn't _as bad _as he thought, but still…

_$1000? _

He was embarrassed when he chuckled a little and thankful when neither of them caught it.

"So, does it have a title?" the woman asked when she seemed satisfied with whatever she had been doing. "Oh, and would you sign it for me, please?"

"Oh, sure," Nick said before he went and searched around for a black Sharpie. He managed to find one tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen and returned to the living room to initial the painting with his standard _N. Burkhardt._ From the way the woman was staring at him, he felt like he was signing an autograph; it was really weird. He thought for a long time about a title for it, which was also something entirely foreign to him. He often found it unnecessary to label his drawings as they sort of spoke for themselves as observations or still-lifes.

"I guess… '_Loss_?'" he threw out there.

"Ah, yes, I can detect sadness and the grief in your brush strokes," she said in a way that he knew was total bullcrap. He bit back the smile that longed to break free and allowed her to feel 'in tune' with him, the 'artist.'

He was completely disappointed when she apparently knew more than he had anticipated.

"I can only imagine what you're going through… Is this her, your girlfriend?" she asked as she took in one of the other paintings he had done. It was the one Nick had painted of Juliette a week or two ago when he couldn't sleep because he was terrified he'd forget her face. He'd used extremely loose brush strokes to define her form against the canvas, only taking real care to work in the details of her beautiful, smiling face. He'd chosen to use only hues of browns and reds and tones of grayish-blue, not particularly caring for realism.

"Yeah, that's her," Nick said as he dragged a hand down the back of his skull, entirely reluctant to talk about Juliette with someone who knew nothing of him and Juliette or the life they'd shared together and what she meant to him.

"I'm sorry, I heard about what happened from Lydia… terrible, really," she said in a sympathetic voice. Of course he'd heard the same thing from his coworkers and Monroe and Rosalee, but hearing it from her was kind of unusual and not particularly welcome. It was that sort of fake sympathy he wasn't especially fond of. He didn't think she was necessarily a bad person, but he could detect that trace of a natural gossip in her voice and he would rather not have a heart to heart with someone like her.

"Thanks," he said in a way he hoped sounded sincere. "It's been really difficult, but she's doing better."

"That's hard. How long were the two of you together?"

"Three years. We were planning on getting married. I guess it's better it happened now rather than later."

"Good thing you two didn't have kids," the husband piped in. "Heard that sort of stuff is genetic…" he stopped talking when he noticed Nick's irritation and his wife's mortification. "Sorry, guess that was a little…"

Nick wanted to punch the guy in the face, but figured Lydia wouldn't appreciate him assaulting the potential buyers. Plus they had just given him $1000. Nick decided to be the good guy as usual and cut the man some slack, though he probably didn't deserve as much. "That's true," Nick said in a forced, even voice. "I don't know what I would do if I had kids to worry about too. It's hard enough as it is."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the woman apologized again as she squeezed his arm with her hand. He wasn't sure if she was apologizing for her husband's tactlessness or just showing sympathy. Either way, he was ready to move onto something else. Perhaps showing them the rest of the house since that was the reason they were there in the first place? If only Lydia lived closer, at least then she could have shown them around. Or a realtor. But he supposed they had their hands full with the farm and Juliette; the least he could do was give the people a tour.

"Who's this?" the woman said as she moved away from Nick to another painting he'd done of Monroe. "He's awfully handsome. _A friend_?" she asked. She raised an eyebrow, a suddenly catty look on her face. She couldn't really be insinuating something like that after they'd just met and especially after the conversation they'd just had about Juliette, right?

"My best friend… I lost him recently too," Nick said in a rather dark, grave voice he hadn't intended originally to use. Her eyes rounded in horror and he had a sneaking suspicion she _had _meant to insinuate something between him and Monroe. Now she was just mortified and Nick found it quite funny. It's not like she would ever come across Monroe in real life so why not let her believe he'd died? It was easier to explain than some pointless falling out; plus the look on her face was well worth it. Her husband remained completely impassive though.

"Oh, you poor darling!" she gasped as he grabbed both his arms with her hands to squeeze them. "Both your girlfriend and your best friend! How awful!"

He was thankful when she didn't ask how he'd passed because he wasn't sure what he'd say. Car accident? He was actually a pretty good liar when he needed to be, but making up a death for Monroe was sort of depressing even when he was getting a laugh out of the woman's comical reactions.

Eventually he managed to get them beyond the paintings and gave them a tour of the house and the yard. They seemed to adore the house, well, from what he could tell by the woman's constant squawking and the man's expressionless stare. He hoped they really did buy the house because he was ready to move on. When he was leading them out the door, the woman turned to him and said:

"I don't suppose there's a number we could reach you by if we ever wanted to buy another painting…?"

"Oh, sure," Nick said as he rifled through his pockets for the business cards he always packed along with him. He wasn't particularly excited about hearing from them again in regards to his 'art,' so it was mostly out of habit when he said, "If you ever need to reach me, this is the best number to call." He pointed out the first number which was for his cell phone and continued, "You can also call me if you're having problems, not that you should since this is a nice neighborhood. But if it's an emergency, please call 911."

The woman giggled. "Well, aren't you just a doll," she said as she reached up and patted his cheek again, this time more sensually and almost… _was she flirting with him? _

_Ugh, _he thought. He wanted to pull away, but knew he couldn't, so he just shot her his award winning smile and said:

"Just doing my job, ma'am."

She actually swooned. He shook his head slowly in astonishment.

"Well, we'll be going now," she said in a girly voice as she began to play with her hair a little. Her eyes gave him a quick once over and she even had the audacity to wink at him. Nick shot a quick, uneasy glance at her husband and found him as pokerfaced as usual even though he was staring right at them. He couldn't believe she was flirting with him now; it was so unbelievably awkward. She'd probably stared at his ass the whole duration of the tour since she seemed so content to follow right behind him. He really couldn't blame her for looking for extramarital excitement as her husband was as lively as a pile of rocks. However, he would not be the one to help her out with that. He just gave her a tight lipped smile as he ushered them out the door.

"Oh," the woman added before Nick could shut the door in her face. "we have a good friend who actually manages a gallery downtown. If there's ever an opening, I'll have her give you a call, alright?"

"Okay, that would be great," he said. He couldn't imagine that ever happening, but he'd pretty much say anything at this point to get rid of them. He gave her another stiff smile as he waved good-bye and closed the door.

* * *

It was late. Nick was sad and lonely and more than a little irritable that he was feeling the former two. And he was bored. It was a bad combination and it didn't help that he'd been drinking from that bottle of wine he'd purchased specially for Monroe on top of that. It'd been almost a week since he'd stopped by Monroe's house and he had yet to hear from the blutbad; even a, _"Don't come by my fucking house again," _would have been better than nothing. Currently he was slumped on the couch with his legs thrown over the sides. One over the arm, one over the back, his head flat against the seat cushions with his eyes on the ceiling. He rotated his phone in his hand several times as he thought about the blutbad and what he was probably doing at that exact moment in time.

Was he eating dinner? Watching a movie? Working on a clock? Was he wondering what Nick was doing too? Did he miss him at all; miss how he smiled the way Nick missed Monroe's? Did he miss the color of Nick's eyes the way Nick wished he could remember the other's more clearly?

His face crumpled then, his eyes squeezing shut into tiny slits as the desire to cry and scream suddenly sought to surface.

What was he doing, fooling himself? It was pretty clear that Monroe didn't intend, _ever, _to make amends after what they'd done when he didn't bother to call, text or see him for a month afterwards. Monroe didn't _want _to see him again, friendly or otherwise.

He choked on a few strangled sobs before they subsided and left him feeling angry again. He pushed himself to sit up and stared down at his phone. Feeling even more irritable than before, he clicked on Monroe's number and started furiously typing a half-drunken text to the miserable blutbad. He quickly found himself writing things he normally wouldn't even consider saying out loud.

_Nick: what the hell is ur problem? am i thta disgusting to u now? im still the same goddamned person i was befor so quit bein such a fukcing drama queen and get ovr it!_

Face flushed, he took one look at what he'd written and deleted it. It was cruel. He was hurt by Monroe's rejection, but it was no reason to be such an asshole. It wasn't like Monroe had a lot of practice dealing with the sort of thing they were currently plagued with; he'd said as much when he'd admitted to not understanding relationships of any sort. Nick didn't have a lot of practice either, but he had a feeling from Monroe's preferred solitude that Nick likely had a lot more one-night stands under his belt than the blutbad. It'd been a month since everything had happened, but maybe Monroe still needed more time.

Why was he making excuses for him now? He was willing to admit he'd fucked up, why couldn't Monroe take some of the guilt too? Some of the responsibility?

He thought of Monroe's face then, how dismissive it must have looked, maybe even exasperated when Nick was banging down his door like some jilted girlfriend. With just the thought, he couldn't stop his fingers from forming even crueler words.

_Nick: ur acting lke a total BITCH! for th love of god, we slept togther! its not like i kiled ur whole family so quit treatin me like im a cockroch and grow a pair! u think ur the 1st guy i slept with? well think again and btw u werent anythin 2 write home about caus a dead fish could get me off better than u at least itd look me in the eyes! i fuking HATE U!_

He was pushing down so hard on the screen that it was starting to protest with a harsh crunching noise. He let up after a second and did his best to control his temper when he wanted nothing more than to throw his phone at the wall or snap it in two. Honestly he didn't want to buy a new phone and it was pointless to cause damage to the house when he was moving out in a few days, so he just closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as he tried to right emotions. When he felt calmer, he opened his eyes and stared down at what he'd written in disgust. Even though he was furious, and a little drunk, he couldn't believe he'd really written it. Deep down inside, he knew he'd never send it so he didn't feel as disgusted with himself as he probably should have. It wasn't the first time he'd written words he never wanted to actually say, but it certainly wouldn't become the first time he'd actually send them either.

He didn't hate Monroe, probably couldn't even if he tried, but a part of him wished he did. He might feel better, like throwing up while ill. He'd pretty much 'thrown up' his feelings onto the phone, and he did feel a little bit better, but he also felt terrible that even the thought might somehow find its way to the other man through some sort of cosmic-telepathic mind connection that he knew didn't exist, but might as well for the way he felt guilty for the existence of his own angry thoughts.

He erased the words as quickly as he'd written them and found himself back to where he'd started. His hands trembled with sadness as he stared down at Monroe's number, then changed just as easily to anger.

His feelings for Monroe were so hot and cold. First he loved him, idealizing every moment they'd ever shared, the good and the bad, and then he was so uncontrollably infuriated just imagining Monroe's smug face after finally having gotten rid of Nick once and for all.

He needed to move on, get over it, because this wasn't the life he wanted to live. This wasn't the way he wanted to feel anymore and he didn't deserve to be treated this way. Yeah he was annoying, yeah he was bland and a lot of times his only redeeming features tended to be his looks, but damn it! He was a nice guy and he always did his best to treat others well. The least they could do was treat him like he mattered too!

And the least Monroe could do was look him in the eyes when he said goodbye. He was sick of this avoidance of the problem; he was tired of them dancing around the issue. They were adults, weren't they? Did normal, fully functioning adults make such a big deal out of something like this? Sure, if Nick was a woman and wound up pregnant, things would be different and far more awkward, but he wasn't. Drunken messing around and sex shouldn't be such a big deal. What was that, 'blame it on the alcohol?' Yeah, he sure would like to.

Not a single word out of the blutbad in all this time. Not one, "Hey, that was _weird_."

Or a, "Let's not do that again."

Or, "Let's forget this ever happened."

Not even a, "I was _so drunk _I don't remember _anything._ But for the sake of argument, let's never talk about it again."

Even if Monroe just told him to "fuck off and die," at least Nick could get out his own frustrated and hurt feelings and move on and maybe even hate the blutbad a little. Because then at least everything would have been said and done and that was a far better place to be than the one they were mired in.

He glanced down at his phone one more time and decided, what the hell? He clicked on Monroe's number and held the phone up to his ear. Maybe he wouldn't answer, but he'd eventually have to check his voicemail. And maybe he would hesitate and consider deleting it without listening to it first, but there was a possibility that he would listen to it and would hear Nick's apology straight from his mouth. Maybe he didn't want to see him, but at least he could hear him out.

"_I'm sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected. Please hang up and-"_

Nick stared down at his phone, absolutely floored that the other man would go to such lengths to avoid him. _Really? _Nick thought. _You'd really change your phone number?_ He let out a laugh before he shook his head in disbelief. He sank back into the cushions and stayed there for a minute as he let his mind process. Without letting himself hesitate or form more excuses for the blutbad, he deleted Monroe from his contacts. The air in his lungs escaped in a harsh sob as the finality of everything registered. The number was useless of course, but there was a bit of sentimentality about it. It wasn't like he could reach Monroe through that number again, but it was what it _meant _that hurt him. No more late night calls, no more beers or shared vegan dinners. No more easy friendship. No more Monroe.

Nick bit into his wrist as the tears finally seeped out freely through the cracks in his façade. He felt so goddamned and utterly alone all because Monroe had abandoned him as well.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read. :)


	6. ABSOLUTION II: ELATION

A/N: This is the revised version, hopefully fixing any grammatical/spelling errors.

WARNING: Horror imagery, proceed with caution.

* * *

CHAPTER 6: Absolution II - Elation

At the sudden pounding on the front door, Monroe jolted awake and slid off of the couch to the floor, jarring his hip and shoulder in a painfully brutal way. He lay there for a moment, his face pressed to the rug as he searched his mind for exactly what had awoken him so suddenly. When the pounding continued, he scrambled to his feet in a hurry and lunged right over the side of the couch towards the door frantically.

_Nick?! _The thought raced through his mind as a different, more recently born fear chased him towards the door. He needed to see the younger man alive, breathing, flushed cheeks and vivid, silver eyes. Even eyes laced with a burning hatred would eradicate some of his anxiety.

The more his thoughts lingered on the Grimm, the more he wanted to wrap his arms around Nick's body and feel his heartbeat thumping against his chest, smell the sweet breath leaving his mouth and the warmth radiating off of his lithe, muscular body. Even his own guilt for raping Nick did nothing to stave off his longing to bury Nick under a mound of blankets and keep him safe, protect him from the evils of the world and guard him from any foul creature who scented his Grimm blood. His desire to maim any person who even looked at Nick with ill will was uncontrollably strong, it frightened him a little. He felt like a mother with her pups, willing to do anything to protect her own. He realized his own feelings wouldn't be enough to right things between them, but he couldn't help thinking in that way.

At the door, Monroe stumbled to a halt before he could smack into it and quickly unlatched the lock and pulled open the door a crack to peer out. He hoped eagerly to see the dark haired detective lurking outside. He was surprised, however, when the face staring back at him belonged to the frail-looking neighborhood postman, wearing a look of equal surprise. Monroe tried not to look too disappointed since the man was actually quite nice, but it was difficult when he would have preferred Nick above anyone else and when he couldn't imagine a possible reason to warrant this unexpected visit.

The elderly gentleman gave Monroe a kind smile as he said, "Oh, good. You're not dead."

"Huh?" Monroe asked with the quirk of his brow and the tilt of his head. _Dead?_

"Your mail's been piling up recently, startin' to wonder if I should call the police."

"Oh," Monroe said slowly, realizing he was completely right. It'd been awhile since he'd checked his mailbox, which was such a ridiculously stupid to do considering what a problem identity theft was these days. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd checked. It wasn't like he got a lot of mail anyway, mostly ads, but he supposed those piled up quickly.

"I was out of town for awhile," Monroe lied to the man slowly. "Sorry to alarm you. I'll clear it out right away."

"That's alright, just good to know you're alive and healthy. You know, the next time you leave town, you can always have your mail forwarded to a different address or…" the man continued to rattle on, but Monroe wasn't entirely paying attention. He already knew all of that anyway since he'd never had anyone to collect his mail for him while he was away before.

"Well, here you go," the postman said after he'd finished his speech as he was handing Monroe that day's mail. "There's still more out in the mailbox. Quite a bit actually."

"Okay, thanks," Monroe said as he smiled before closing the door.

He didn't bother to look through the stack, just tossed it onto the kitchen counter before he slumped his way back to the living room. He straightened the blanket he'd been using to cover up the holes he'd torn into the couch and the exposed stuffing peeking through before flopping back onto it. He hadn't slept upstairs in his bedroom in the last three weeks, choosing instead to sleep on the couch despite how painful the exposed springs were on his sides and back. But at this point, they were really just minor inconveniences; the upstairs smelled like Nick and reminded him of things preferably forgotten.

Monroe let out a long sigh, his head beginning once more to pound. The migraine he'd had on and off for the last three days was returning and was making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate on anything more complex than the back of the couch. He wished he could sleep the pain away, but even that had become difficult. When he'd ceased to head to the woods at any sign of trouble, real or imagined, he'd seemingly developed more difficulties on top of what he'd already had. It appeared that the more he tried to deal with the problem, the more it devolved into subconscious torture. He'd spent most of the last week at home after bumbling around in the woods for a few days. Despite the horrible nature of the things he'd shared with Rosalee, it had been the shortest period of time he'd spent in the wild after yielding to his primal desires - a mere two days. He knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life running, so he'd reluctantly dragged himself home feeling quite disgusted with himself and had spent the week trying to will himself to do _something, anything _to deal with this problem concerning Nick.

He had yet to do anything, unsurprisingly.

Since he'd seen her, Rosalee had yet to contact him. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing as he wasn't quite ready to look her in the eyes just yet, but he did worry about what she thought of him though, especially since he hadn't gone to see Nick like she'd told him to. He wondered if she knew, if she'd called Nick to tell him Monroe was on his way. He really hoped Nick hadn't waited for him. If he had, his reasons to despise Monroe were increasing exponentially. He couldn't imagine what Nick possibly thought of him now. Or what he was doing. Was he okay? He hoped so… he missed Nick. Monroe wished Nick would stop by just to sate Monroe's curiosity and let him know exactly what he felt about him. He'd take the hate-filled, spiteful words as everyday pleasantries just to hear his best friend's voice again.

Monroe closed his eyes, willing his body to sink into darkness, but he could already tell it would be hard pressed to submit. Lately it had become almost impossible for him to sleep for any extended period of time. Whenever he closed his eyes, the nightmares began. He wasn't entirely surprised it had taken this long for the problem to erupt; in the recent past he'd had a habit of rarely going to bed voluntarily, choosing instead to run his body down to the point of collapse. The nightmares were so terrible that he often preferred the insomnia. Even when he was prepared to face them for the sake of some measure of rest, his sleep was often disjointed and arresting, filled with horrific images often startling him awake. He'd tried everything: meditation, vigorous exercise, even pills. None of it worked and he had developed crippling migraines in the process from sleep deprivation and compounded stress. He'd taken his own mess of herbs and had even resorted to store-bought medicines with little relief…

He wished it would just end, all of it. He didn't want to deal with any of it anymore. He wanted to go back to how things were, when he was alone, when the deeds of his past were so deeply hidden they failed to emerge more than once every few years. When he could pretend for a minute that he wasn't who he was, that he was better than that guy.

Above all else, he wished he could sleep for just one night without dreaming of Nick's dead body lying cold and broken at his feet.

* * *

Somehow he managed to fall asleep, sinking into a version of the dream he'd had so many times before. It always started in the same manner. He emerged in a dense black forest, deeply blanketed by an ever present fog. Confused, he walked for awhile rather aimlessly, his footsteps always too loud against the cover of pine needles, always echoing in his ears like that of a fluttering, wild heartbeat. There was never a point to his wandering, or a direction, but eventually he always managed to arrive at the same fated spot. There gouged into the earth was a deep scar, entirely unnatural though never out of place in his mind. Even though instinctually he knew what he would find when he peered over the edge, he was powerless to stop himself.

At the bottom of the pit, Nick rested among twisting and curling locks of gold, his lips no longer a healthy pink, but a deathly purple and the flesh of his fingers, his face, graying. The part that killed Monroe the most were those vacant eyes staring up from the bottom of the grave. They weren't Nick's eyes though; those eyes belonged to another and were always that intense shade of golden brown he wished to burn from his memory forever; the very color of dead, rotting leaves. They always stared at him with a fiery intensity, even in death, always quick to remind him of a past he could never bury deep enough.

Unable to bear the weight of his own guilt, he would stumble back from the pit, tripping and falling over his own clumsy footwork in the futile hope of escaping. He ran and ran through the forest, his feet catching on every branch, the very earth under him hoping to swallow him whole. At his back, just in his peripherals, a shadow tailed him, piercing crimson eyes flashing at him through the haze of darkness. Eventually, inescapably, he would fall, the claws of the beast snagging and tearing open his back, through his belly, his innards escaping to coil under his pained, trembling body. Teeth would sink into his limbs, into his sides, ripping bits of him away as the beast feasted, never doing enough to actually kill him. It wanted, delighted, for him to feel every moment of torture, every ounce of pain as he slowly succumbed to mortality. The smell of decay and his own blood seeped into his nostrils, suffocating him while he clawed uselessly at the ground, wishing for it all to end, for the beast to just kill him.

Behind him, a hoarse laugh whispered against his hair. When he turned his head, he was startled to find Nick laying there beside him, an eternal grin stretched across his lips as the rotting flesh of his mouth slowly pulled away from his teeth. His eye sockets now empty, filled with the writhing bodies of maggots. The pearly white of Nick's beautiful skull shone through the torn skin of his face, bloodied red like Monroe's own. When Monroe stared down at his own hands, his fingernails broken and bloodied, maggots appeared, crawling up from the earth under him, covering his wounds in a siege of white. He longed to scream with fervent terror as his bones were picked clean of meat, but he was frozen, his whole body paralyzed as he stared into the emptiness of his best friend's eyes, knowing they were chasing each other like butterflies into death's open embrace.

Nick only ever voiced one word as the dirt and stones fell around their broken bones, burying them further and further under the earth: '_Why?'_

But it wasn't Nick's voice he heard. It was the voice of someone younger, someone he'd only ever heard voicing shrill screams in the forest. The ghost of his past come haunting, reminding him of the one thing he feared the most, whispering in his ear, '_You know this is where it's going.' _

He always woke at those words, this time it was no different. He glanced down at his watch; no more than ten minutes had passed since he'd last opened his eyes. His entire body ached with a dull pain, his head pounding. Cold sweat poured down his spine, pooling under his shirt as his eyes burned with unshed tears. He buried his face in his stinging hands, longing to burn away the images from his mind, the feelings.

He never wanted Nick to die, and he certainly didn't want to be the one to deliver the fatal blow. Honestly he didn't want to kill anyone, not anymore.

He lay there on the couch for a long time, unable to sleep yet too pained to actually move. Eventually he would have to make a decision, try to sleep some more or find something else to fill his time. Until then, he would close his eyes for a bit, even if that meant reliving the last few moments of his nightmare.

* * *

Monroe couldn't fall back to sleep. His head still hurt, but it was more manageable than it had been even an hour before. There was no reason for him to linger on the couch any longer when there were so many other things he should be doing instead.

He started first on tidying up the downstairs, the more likely place someone might notice the damage he'd caused to his own house. It took him two hours nonstop to gather up most of the wreckage, sweeping glass and drywall into neat piles; unfortunately the walls were still horribly damaged since he'd punched a few more holes in them in the weeks prior to. He honestly looked forward to the day when he could open the curtains again. The darkness certainly helped with the migraines, but it wasn't helping his depression any. At least he wasn't the only one on the street with drawn curtains because of the heat so it didn't register as too unusual, thankfully.

Monroe was just straightening up the furniture, smoothing the blanket back onto the couch and rearranging the throw pillows when there was a knock at his door. His back tensed immediately at the sound, the muscles clenching tight against his spine as he turned his head towards the door to listen. When a tendril of Nick's scent met his nose, his heart practically threw itself at the walls of his ribcage, thumping madly in a mixture of nerves and eagerness. Along with Nick's scent was another he easily recognized but couldn't immediately place; it gave him pause. He approached the door slowly, anxious of who or what he might find on the other side.

When he finally swung open his door, he was surprised to see Hank standing there with a rather cross look on his face. Monroe immediately felt nauseous and fearful; did the man know?

"Whoa, what the hell happened to your living room?" the senior detective barked in shock as he peered over Monroe's arm. He sounded genuinely amazed, if not stunned, as his eyes swept the interior of Monroe's living room, pausing and lingering on several broken picture frames and clocks leaning against the walls.

"Uh…" Monroe automatically glanced behind him even though he knew exactly how horrible it looked. He closed the door a bit more until only his head was peering out between the space. "Just doing a little remodeling."

"I'll say. Looks like a gorilla tore through your house."

Monroe huffed, starting to feel irritable himself and not really up for discussing the state of his living room. "Can I help you with something, Hank?" he asked, his voice teetering on the side of sarcasm.

Hank turned his attention back to Monroe before he folded his arms across his chest, the muscles flexing under his shirt in a subtly threatening manner. He quirked one of his dark brows as he stared at Monroe, a frown embedded deep in his forehead. Finally he asked slowly, "Have you talked to Nick recently?"

Hank's question gave Monroe pause; his voice implied he already knew the answer, if not rather well and meant it more as a trap than an actual inquiry. Monroe wasn't entirely surprised; he figured the only reason Hank would ever choose to visit him personally would be in relation to Nick. He was still left at a loss though as how to answer the other man when he didn't know exactly what he was hinting at. What could his question possibly mean anyway? Was Nick hurt? Hospitalized?

"Uh, no, we're sort of… not talking right now," Monroe replied slowly, hoping Hank would tell him that Nick was in good health at the very least.

"Yeah, I figured as much," the other man replied, not even bothering to hide his disappointment.

It was so vague, it worried Monroe even more.

"Why, did something happen to Nick? Is he okay? Did he get hurt..?" The questions began to slide off of his tongue with increasing apprehension as images from his dream flashed through his thoughts.

"Oh, so _now _you're concerned about him?" Hank scoffed; Hank had never much cared for him, that was clear from his malicious tone. "You only care about Nick when he's in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death?"

Monroe narrowed his eyes, his grip on the doorframe tightening to the point where he honestly worried he might have to replace it. Hank had no right, absolutely _no right _to say something like that to Monroe. He'd been a jerk to Nick, _more than a jerk, _he wasn't denying that, but it wasn't Hank's place to say something like that, to even _assume for a moment _that Monroe didn't care about Nick except when it was convenient for him.

Perhaps Hank realized he'd overstepped some line or was about to have the door slammed in his face, because he was quickly saying in a voice not laden heavy with malice:

"Look, I don't know what's going on between you two, but I've known Nick for a long time now and I know he can say and do some pretty thoughtless things at times, but he's a good kid at heart. He only means well. He's just…" He sighed; Monroe knew exactly what he was talking about. "Point is, now's really not the time for him to go losing friends, not after the whole mess with Juliette. Whatever he said or did to you, just put that aside for now until he's over her." Hank hesitated as he sort of gave Monroe a cool once-over with his eyes, "And I can tell just by watching him that you're important to him. He needs you right now."

Monroe felt his cheeks flush a hot red at that admission; what did he mean by that exactly? Did he know…? But no, if Hank really knew the truth, Monroe would already be dead somewhere, out in the woods buried under a mound of dirt or plummeting off of some waterfall somewhere. And Hank certainly wouldn't be there telling _him _to forgive Nick.

When Monroe failed to comment, Hank added, "You should go see him. He's at home all day today. I think he'd appreciate it."

The very last thing Nick would appreciate at the moment would be a visit from him. A shot in the stomach was probably more welcome than even just a glimpse of Monroe's face.

"The thing is," Monroe said, trying to find the right words, "what happened between us really can't be fixed with a simple apology. And it's not something you can just gloss over for the moment to worry about fixing later. It's… not that simple."

"As a man who's been married three times," Hank said as he shifted his weight sounding uncomfortably sincere, "I've learned a little too late every time that the person you're with is always more important than winning some stupid argument or always being right. And pride, though great, certainly won't keep you warm at night."

"Um, okay, great. Thanks, Dr. Phil, I'll keep that in mind," Monroe quipped back with a snide air, quite eager to close the door by that point.

"I'm just saying…"

"Like I said, things between Nick and I are rocky right now. So if you'll excuse me…" Monroe said as he started to close the door like he wanted. He nearly snarled when he was stopped by a forceful foot shoved between the door and the jamb and Hank quite bluntly asking:

"Okay, I'm done beating around the bush. Did you sleep with him or something? 'Cause you could do a hell of a lot worse than Nick. Nick's not a bad looking guy."

"_What?!_"

"Like I've said, I've known Nick for years and when he gets drunk, he has a tendency to check out the guys just as much as the ladies. I figured it out pretty quickly that Nick swings both ways. So if that's the problem-"

"It's not! Even still, why would you… why does everyone _automatically assume _we're sleeping together? Are we somehow incapable of having normal fights?"

"Oh, well, sorry. I just always assumed…it certainly explained some of the secrecy between you two. I always thought you guys had that sort of 'vibe' about you. Guess I was wrong."

_Again with this 'vibe?' What's this 'vibe' everyone keeps talking about? _

"Just because Nick and I like to have drinks and eat dinner together periodically and just spend time together like two normal, functioning adults, that doesn't mean we're…" It awfully sounded like they were dating when he worded it like that… which didn't help the point he was trying to make. "Regardless of how it looks, we're just friends. _Were _just friends. And my…" Monroe shook his head in astonishment that he was even having this sort of conversation with Hank of all people in the first place. "My relationship with Nick, _intimate or not_, which it's not, is between Nick and myself. _Only _Nick and myself." _So back off._

Maybe it was the way Monroe's voice began to curl into a growl at the end of the sentence that made Hank back off a bit.

"Fine, whatever," he said, his hands thrown up in frustration. "I'm here for Nick, not to settle anything with you. Nick's like a kid brother to me, and I worry about him. He's a mess right now after losing Juliette, so I'm asking you, not for me, it's no secret that I'm not overly fond of you and I'm well aware that the feeling's mutual, but I'm asking for Nick. _Please _just talk to him. You're important to him. If I could find a different way to help Nick, I'd do it, but I know you make Nick happy, _as a friend,_" he emphasized just to irritate Monroe, "So I'm asking you. Please."

Hank's dislike of him was so clear, yet his words were so sincere Monroe felt less insulted than he should have been. He was almost flattered.

"I'm no more important than you are."

"Heh, I'm sure," Hank responded with a laugh. "So I can count on you?" he said with a shit-eating grin on his face as he quickly descended the stairs before Monroe could answer properly. He gave a quick wave, his back already turned, as he headed down the walk and got into his car.

When Hank drove away, he left Monroe still standing there, not entirely sure what he'd agreed to - had he agreed to anything? He sighed. Monroe didn't truly dislike Hank, they just happened to rub each other the wrong way. Well, sort of. He figured Hank's dislike of him stemmed from Monroe's involvement in cases where the senior detective felt he had no reason to be involved - which was a valid point given he knew nothing of wesen. Because Hank didn't particularly like him, Monroe had a tendency to react with sarcasm, which didn't make things better. Nick seemed to like and admire Hank a great deal, so the man must be a nice guy under the cross exterior. Not to mention the fact that Hank cared about Nick enough to seek out Monroe's help despite the animosity between them; he must be a pretty decent person. It was pretty admirable actually. Unfortunately, Hank's advice was misguided along with his request. Monroe couldn't make Nick happy if he'd been one of the ones to make him so miserable in the first place. Hank failed to incorporate the fact that Nick hadn't tried once to contact him since everything had happened, not that Hank knew that of course or what had even transpired between them. If Nick honestly wanted to talk, work things out, he wouldn't be avoiding Monroe like he was. It was true that Monroe hadn't been home lately because of his adventures in the woods, but the young detective would have at least tried calling or texting him if he was interested in talking things out. Nick didn't _want _to talk, didn't _want _to patch things up. Sure, Monroe was avoiding him too, but only because he didn't want to make things worse, didn't want to hurt Nick anymore. And because he was just afraid of what he might accidentally do if he tried to make things better.

Hell, if Monroe could make Nick feel some semblance of happiness again, he'd do it in a heartbeat. But first he needed some sign from Nick, some starting place. If only Nick could tell him how to make things better again…

* * *

Predictably, Monroe did not go to see Nick like Hank had asked him to. If Nick was as distraught as Hank led him to believe, the last thing Nick needed at the moment was for Monroe to show up on his doorstep completely unannounced and remind him of that awful night all over again. Even if he went for the sole purpose of getting down on his hands and knees and groveling for forgiveness, it didn't sound like Nick was ready.

And what if Nick 'forgave' him while he was that distraught? If he was lonely enough, he might do it for the sake of having someone to talk to…

What a joke, Monroe thought. Like that would happen. Nick was a good guy, a nice guy, but he wasn't pathetic. Sure he had a habit of trusting the wrong people, but he had _some _self-preservation skills. He wasn't a complete idiot.

If Nick _really _wanted to see him, Monroe would let the other man come to him. It was cowardly, but Monroe wasn't really good with these sorts of things. Though Angelina had been difficult to read and had a tendency of overreacting to the point of violent outbursts, he'd always managed in the past to piss off whoever he was dating by being too blunt or too insensitive by not giving his partner enough time. Often he just made things worse. He knew Nick wasn't a woman and that men and women had different thought patterns and ways of dealing with things, but this wasn't some normal lovers' spat, not even close. There weren't really protocols for dealing with things of this nature or self-help books that could point him in the right direction. He was pretty much on his own figuring it out, and frankly, it wasn't working out too well.

The only thing he could think of was going to jail, but wouldn't Nick have to press charges against him for that? If he just turned himself in, would the police even take him seriously? Would Nick even admit to what had happened even confidentially to put Monroe away? Or would it have to come down to something more drastic, like…

He immediately shut down his train of thought as it was going into dangerously dark territory he'd never really traveled before. He slapped his hands against the sides of his face several times trying to distract his spiraling thoughts. It must be the nightmares talking, or the sleep deprivation. Hell, even the migraines. Nick wasn't even that sort of person. He was a Grimm, sure, but not much of a killer, preferring reason to bloodshed. If Monroe was to perish for the sake of redemption, it would have to be self-inflicted…

He needed to do something else, his thoughts were getting just ridiculous. Even if that's what it came down to, he'd most likely just run and hide out in the woods like a wild dog. If Nick wanted to hunt him down, fine, but he wouldn't just take it lying down…

_Bad analogy_, he admonished himself.

He paced around the living room for a few minutes before he pulled out the telephone book and looked up the address of the nearest dumpster rental place.

* * *

The passing of a silver SUV didn't immediately pique his interest until a few moments later he noticed two of the neighbor girls staring at him like he was some sort of freak as he carried out the wreckage from inside his house. All three of the neighbor girls looked pretty similar with their dark hair and their lightly tanned skin. He assumed they got their looks from their mother as he'd never seen the father before; he'd heard from someone that the man was rather well-to-do and a complete asshole. The mother, Jacquie, was young, probably around thirty-five with the same wavy dark hair and deep, bronzy skin. She was a nurse or some other kind of medical professional, he wasn't sure. Human, nice enough. He'd never really talked to her much, but in the past she'd tried several times to ask him to the neighborhood barbeques with little luck. She was downright gorgeous, sure, but he didn't think he could handle being a father-figure to three young girls when he'd babysat only once before in his life. Not to say he had a chance to begin with; she was at least a 9 in the scale of looks whereas he was a what? A 3, 3 ½? Maybe that was even generous of himself.

The oldest one who looked the most like her - he didn't know any of their names - was staring at him with a look of disgust on her face. He paused near the dumpster, ready to throw in his load and just looked back at her, curious as to what about him bothered her so much. He quickly realized he was pretty much holding up the entire table with one arm like it weighed nothing; to him it didn't but he supposed that was pretty weird from her perspective. He should really try harder to blend in; his colors were beginning to show.

She shook her head slightly, a rather normal look of teenaged revulsion reserved for all peoples older than herself firmly planted on her face; without another glance, she breezed past him with her younger sister and went into their house, the door slamming. Monroe wanted to call after her, _'What, never seen housework before?' _but bit his tongue. She would probably tell her mom he'd hit on her or something and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. Speaking of her mother, Jacquie was suddenly standing a few yards away from him as she stopped to check her mail. She looked up at him and gave him a friendly, neighborly smile. Monroe returned the smile, albeit a bit nervously and gave a little wave. Her eyes darted to the table in his grip, a curious look on her face. Embarrassed, Monroe easily tossed the cheap table into the bin and turned to go back into the house before she could ask. He watched out the window and waited until she was safely inside of her own house before he carried out the next load of destroyed things.

Though Jacquie had acted friendly enough, Monroe was beginning to wonder if someone had caught him acting weird because lately he'd been receiving a lot of strange looks not limited to Jacquie's daughter. Whenever he drove down the road or happened to go outside for more than a few minutes, people would sort of nod in his direction before turning to each other to whisper enthusiastically. He was used to being an outcast of sorts, sure, but couldn't they wait until he was inside of his house or safely down the street before they started ripping him apart? It was only common courtesy, after all. He completely realized, _and accepted, _that he would never be the most popular guy on the block, but their poorly disguised interest in him sort of hampered the peaceful anonymity he'd come to expect on the street. It was likely that someone had seen him trashing his downstairs or tearing up the fencing in his backyard in a mad dash for the woods. He rarely saw his two closest neighbors, a widow to the right and Jacquie and her family to the left, but it was likely that one of them had seen something and had failed to keep it to themselves. It wouldn't entirely surprise him if they thought he was a freak, hell, maybe they even thought he was on drugs. Why not? As long as he wasn't pinned as a pedophile or a sex-offender, he could deal with 'drug addict,' 'psychologically unbalanced,' and just plain 'bat-shit insane.' Really, it wasn't so bad. At least people would leave him alone, even go out of their way to avoid walking in front of his house. He just hoped no one blew up his mailbox again, not that it had been anything personal the first time; he'd been one of many.

Certainly this wasn't the first time he'd been the focus of idle chatter. Ever since Nick had wrongfully shoved him into a police car all those months ago, he'd been a favorite topic of discussion and speculation. Even though it had all been a mistake, it didn't quell people's curiosity in the least and it wasn't like Nick had gone around to everyone's houses to reassure them that he'd been wrong and that Monroe was indeed an upstanding citizen. Monroe hadn't either, but it would have made little difference. As it was, he rarely talked to his neighbors and he only happened to know they were gossiping about him because of his superior hearing and his penchant for late night walks. They'd already pegged him long ago as a pariah, so what difference did a raid of his house by the police make?

Even at the time, he hadn't been too worried about what his neighbors thought; he'd been too focused on other things. Other things like Nick.

He'd been thrown by the sudden appearance of a Grimm in his neighborhood and what it would mean for the future. Until then he'd only heard the stories, and even now to know that Nick was related to _the _Marie Kessler absolutely astounded him - she'd been a tough lady, even on her deathbed. Though Monroe hadn't shown much fear towards Nick upon their initial meeting (he was more curious than anything and intrigued by Nick's naivety) there was a certain level of trepidation he'd felt when he looked into those strikingly beautiful silver eyes, quite dangerous in their depth. He wasn't sure why he helped Nick that night, what he'd been thinking at the time, but when Nick had shown up on his door a few days later, the trepidation evolved into a different form of tension and his intrigue grew into something entirely unhealthy. Monroe became Nick's lifeline, what kept his head above the water as he flailed pathetically through the first few months of his new life. Nick's dependence on him had given him an inflated sense of self and a swollen ego.

But Nick had chosen the wrong person to trust. Apparently Nick hadn't read his fairy tales as a kid, which surprised him. His parents really should have known better being Grimms. If Nick had read them he wouldn't have ignored the one clear warning consistently spread throughout the stories: the Big Bad Wolf is not a friend. It will eat you up with the snap of its jaws; swallow you whole the moment it leads you into its den. Silly little boy, why didn't you listen?

_Why couldn't you have figured it out before I had a chance to hurt you…?_

Whatever, it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered now. His neighbors could say whatever they wanted about him, he didn't care. Eventually they would lose interest in him and find better things to talk about. Nothing would change what they already thought of him anyway. Nick's opinion of him mattered more than theirs, and Nick had already made his, so why should Monroe care about some stupid human's thoughts when they knew nothing about him or his life or the way he struggled to be good and the way he was continuously losing the battle one day at a tim-

"My, what a strong man you are."

Monroe jumped straight into the air and came within an inch of falling off the back of the dumpster and flat onto the asphalt. He spun around to snap at whoever had startled him when he was taken aback by the sight of a small woman no taller than a young child staring up at him. It took him a moment to recognize her as his other neighbor, Olive, the widow.

In the twelve years he'd lived in the neighborhood, he remembered seeing her only twice before. He was quite surprised to see how tiny she was - hadn't she been at _least _a foot taller at some point? And god, how she'd aged over the years. She looked like she was at least a hundred-and-five though he knew she was somewhere in her late eighties. _Should she even be outside? _he wondered nervously as he watched her standing there, slightly tottering on her feet._ Doesn't she have someone watching her like kids or a caretaker or someone just to make sure she doesn't fall over? Who even let her outside or did she manage to escape somehow? Is she senile? What if she wanders out into the woods and gets eaten by something? Should I try to get her back home or will she scream? Rather not have people think I'm trying to kill and/or rape her… God, can my day get any worse?_

She continued to stand there silently with a smile on her face, just watching him watching her. Just looking at her, he felt like jumping down from the dumpster and carrying her back inside of her house despite the risk just so she wouldn't harm herself by tripping over a crack in the sidewalk and breaking her back or something. Or just by standing there and crumbling into dust.

"Uh, just doing some remodeling," Monroe finally said as means of an explanation for what he was doing. When she frowned and nodded her head in interest, his mouth pulled into an uneasy smile as though he'd done something wrong. If she only knew what he'd done to the inside of his house… well, he didn't know what she'd do. Tell someone? He was embarrassed, regardless.

"Young man, might I interest you in some tea and cookies? I have a proposition for you."

He snorted as the thought of her little frail arms trying to shove him into an open oven popped into his head; she wasn't a witch, though, just a little old woman. Even still, the notion was pretty funny.

"Alright," Monroe agreed as he jumped down from the dumpster, doing his best to hide the grin still threatening to burst free across his face. She seemed to be operating with all her marbles still intact; maybe she did leave her house more often than he realized. It wasn't like he was the most sociable guy himself.

"Your name's Monroe, correct?" she asked as he approached her. He nodded his head, surprised she remembered.

"Olive, right?" Monroe replied with. She beamed up at him, pleased he also remembered. "Is there something I can help you with..?"

"I just need help moving a few things… and I just made a fresh batch of cookies. I promise it'll be well worth your time."

"Okay," Monroe said with a nonchalant shrug. He liked cookies and he wasn't really that busy, plus she sort of reminded him of his own grandmother, though considerably less hairy.

It wasn't until he was following her into her house that he realized how odd it was. Wasn't there that story about the blutbad eating the grandmother and then getting chopped to death by some crazy, axe-wielding lunatic lumberjack? How did it go again? However it went, no, thank you. Nevertheless, he followed little Olive as she struggled to get up the stairs to her house, waving off all of his attempts to assist her. He wondered why her children hadn't built her a ramp already, seemed a little ridiculous to have their elderly mother going up and down a flight of stairs; not to mention her house was a two-story. Who was watching this poor lady? It'd been awhile since Monroe had pulled out his table saw from the garage, but the first thing he was going to do was build her a ramp. No wonder she never left the house.

"I know it's a bit much to ask, but I need a strong man to help me move some things around. I'm willing to pay you on top of the cookies."

"Oh, no that's… I don't mind helping. For free. We're neighbors after all."

"Well, you say that now, but there's something else I need your help with."

It was so vague, it was a little threatening. What the hell did she mean by that? Did she want him to dispose of a body or something? Though unlikely, he'd seen weirder things on the evening news. Maybe he seemed enough like a serial killer to her that he'd be _totally okay _with doing something like that - and technically he had. He'd killed enough people to be considered a serial killer and he'd moved bodies before, not to mention all the other weird shit he's done for Nick as well. Apparently he _was _creepy enough to do stuff like that; the thought was sobering.

As far as Monroe could tell, Olive was human… but some of the creepiest people he'd ever met were average humans beings. She could totally be _Texas Chainsaw Massacre _crazy and have bodies lined up around the dining room table for tea time or something insane like that. Her family all dead and stuffed, _that's _why he'd never seen anyone taking care of her. They were all dead, lured in with cakes and sweets…

Nah, he thought when he looked down at her sweetly smiling face, her house was probably just hoarded floor to ceiling, dead cats interspersed between the layers of old newspapers and garbage. He'd seen _Hoarders_, he'd seen the crap people held onto. He was a bit sentimental himself, but still…

Maybe he _would _want monetary payment.

He was pleasantly surprised and quite pleased at how neat the inside of her house was for someone who moved about as fast as a snail with a walker - and because he really did not want to go digging around in someone else's garbage looking for a missing cat. He wasn't quite that nice. Though if Nick had asked him to, he probably would have done it all because the man was insufferably charming.

Olive's house was about as old as his was, but it reminded him of his grandmother's house more. Charming little knick-knacks scattered here and there, beautiful old rugs thrown down onto real hardwood floors, antique furniture lined along the walls. He was delighted by her collection of paintings and old photographs and knew if he was allowed to, he would spend hours just perusing her house like a museum. But there was one thing that caught his attention above the rest: the gorgeous grandfather clock at the end of the hallway. It wasn't moving, so he wondered if she was going to ask him to fix it. Was that what she wanted? Him to fix her clock? But did she even know he fixed clocks for a living?

"What an absolutely gorgeous piece," Monroe commented as he approached the beauty. Upon closer examination, he found the face to be hand painted porcelain done in a careful, detailed hand, each hour depicting a different breed of rose. He'd never seen anything like it before. He touched an inquisitive hand to the dark wood, impressed by the intricately carved, curling pattern of thorns along the edge of the etched glass door, all the way down to the clawed feet, each resembling a gnarled root. It seemed almost enchanted, as though another world existed to be had, but only after passing through the sweeping guillotine; something Monroe might have imagined as a child on those long, sunny afternoons spent in his grandparents' farmhouse, dozing to the sound of his grandfather's deep, rumbling speech and the swing of the pendulum keeping time. The smell of fresh baked bread heavy on his tongue; his grandmother's warm hugs…

Olive approached him slowly from behind, startling him from his reverie. She came to stand by his shoulder and peered up at the clock with tender eyes.

"My father made this clock for my mother," she explained in a voice filled with her own fond memories. "It was an anniversary present for her. It took him over six years to build."

"It's… astonishing. I think I might be in love…" Monroe uttered, his mouth agape in awe. "I suppose your father did all the internal work as well, only makes sense," he said, his fingers tracing an inscription hidden among the branches.

"_Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time_," Monroe read slowly. "Well, that's clever."

"Spenser. One of my mother's favorites."

Monroe searched his mind for the name. "The poet, right?"

"Correct. You're very clever."

"Not really, just happened to read some of his poetry in passing once."

Olive smiled at him. "I take it, you like clocks."

"It's more than just a hobby, I'm actually a clock-maker by trade. I can take a look at it for you, if you'd like," Monroe offered. "I see it's not running…"

"If it wouldn't be too much of a problem. It's been years now since it worked last. I would love to see it up and running again. It makes the loveliest noise on the hour."

"Considering how much work your father put into this clock, I can only imagine…"

Staring into the clock's face, through the sides at the cogs, he felt like a child on his birthday, set loose in an amusement park while cruising on a sugar high. He hadn't felt such elation in such a long he was liable to start chattering on incessantly like a coke addict. He couldn't wait to pry back the skin and peer into the heart of such a beautiful beast. This was the sort of clock he'd always dreamed of having. He was alright with woodcarving, but he was shit at painting and knew nothing of ceramics. Even if he could make the body and do all the internal workings, the face would never be good enough; just little blobs of paint pretending to be flowers or birds or whatever else he aimed for them to be. Just never quite good enough…

"Well, the cookies still need to cool for a bit longer," Olive said, "why don't you follow me, I'll show you what I need help with."

Monroe nodded a bit reluctantly; he wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to the clock just yet, but he supposed he would have it all to himself soon, in his house where he could spend all the time he needed learning its secrets.

"Now, I do have some boxes I will need to be moved to the basement," Olive explained. "My grandson's moving in with me soon and I need to clear out the downstairs bedroom for him. I'd do it myself, but I just don't have the strength like I used to."

_Why isn't he doing it? _Monroe wondered with well concealed irritation. He didn't mind helping her, not at all as she was so sweet and helpless, but he wondered why a perfectly able-bodied young man couldn't do it if it was for his own benefit. He knew it would be rude of him to ask, so he kept his mouth firmly clamped shut as he followed her to the stairs.

"Now, before we get started on clearing out Benjamin's room, there's something else I need you to help me with. If you'll just follow me…"

"Alright."

Monroe regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth as he realized how correct he'd been with his analogy of a snail with a walker. It wasn't really her fault, but _Good Lord, lady_, he wanted to grumble. When they'd gone about four steps of sixteen, Monroe said:

"I could carry you up the stairs if you want."

"No, no, I got it," she said while waving him off. Monroe clamped his mouth shut before he could let out a frustrated sigh as he climbed the stairs, one at a time, following dutifully behind her.

It was a good five minutes later when they finally arrived on the upstairs landing. Olive looked a little worn out from the climb, but her cheeks had a healthy, rosy glow to them. Monroe couldn't help but wonder why anyone would want to eat a little old lady like her. He couldn't imagine she would taste very good and she had hardly anything on her fragile little frame. Any meat on her would be tough as old leather and taste about as good. Not to mention how boring the hunt would be; half of he fun was the chase. A blutbad would have to be pretty desperate and on the brink of starvation to go for such weak, unsavory prey.

His idle thoughts unnerved him the more he let them invade his mind. They harked back to the dreams plaguing him and the last thing he wanted to linger on were images of the aftermath of killing an innocent creature. The blood and the bones and the horrible realization of what he'd done.

Olive suddenly cleared her throat causing Monroe to flinch. He turned to see her staring at him. He must have been quite vacant eyed to warrant such an expression of concern on her face. Monroe gave her a reluctant smile.

"Now I don't come up her very often because of my bad knees, " she confessed as she turned back to the hallway. "But lately I've been hearing some awfully strange noises coming from up here at night. I'm hoping it's just my imagination, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind checking..?"

It was probably a trapped bird or something similar from a window left open. She'd know by now if it were burglars. From the state of the upstairs, Monroe could tell she rarely made trips to the second floor. Even though it appeared as tidy as the downstairs, there was a thick layer of dust covering every viable surface. It was almost hard to breath and he worried about touching anything or even walking on the carpet without kicking up a cloud of dust. She didn't appear to notice as she began to shuffle down the hallway, but it was likely she'd been breathing it in for years.

As Monroe took a few steps towards where she was standing, he immediately noticed the stench coming from the end of the hall. It was definitely animals, he decided as he stuck his nose into the crook of his arm to ward off some of the smell. He realized he had a superior ability as a blutbad, but there was no way she couldn't smell that.

"Oh, no, of course not," he replied as earnestly as possible, his voice a little nasally as he tried not to breathe through his nose. He prayed it wasn't rats. He didn't particularly care for them, but he supposed if she had an infestation, he could call Roddy to take care of it. They still played together on occasion, not that he'd been using his cello much these days.

"Right in there, dear," Olive said as she pointed a knobby hand towards the very last door to the left at the end of the hallway. "That's where I've been hearing the oddest thing. It sounds sort of like something shuffling around up here. You don't suppose I have mice, do you?"

Monroe didn't reply; there was honestly nothing he could think of to say that wasn't absolutely _sopping _with sarcasm; after all, _how many mice would it take to make discernible noise capable of being heard downstairs by an eighty-year old grandmother?_ Mice? _Really?_

When he opened the door slowly, the stench that escaped was unbearable, he could no longer politely pretend not to notice as he immediately buried his nose once more into his arm. If it wasn't for the smell and the indiscriminately scattered droppings on the floor, it was a rather nice room. It appeared to be a room for a very young girl. The wallpaper was a charming pattern of strips of roses and bands of pink; the duvet - completely destroyed now with shredded material and down scattered everywhere - was a cheerful shade of yellow. Framed pictures of kittens and a net of teddy bears hung in the far corner. From the layer of dust covering the child-sized desk and the shelf of kids' books, he could tell that the room hadn't been used in quite a long time. Monroe felt depressed as his eyes swept the room and lingered on the unused items; he couldn't imagine how lonely she must feel everyday…

"It looks like the window was left open," Monroe pointed out when Olive appeared by his side; she let out a heavy sigh as she saw the billowing white curtains across from them.

"Oh my, it looks like a cat's been using this room as its own personal litter box. How awful… I must have forgotten to close the window after Aubrey left. My great-granddaughter," she clarified when Monroe glanced down at her. He couldn't imagine when that must have been…

Monroe doubted the culprit was a cat. It certainly looked like cat droppings, but it didn't smell like one and when he peered up at the ceiling, he could see there'd been some additional damage to the plaster where it had been possibly chewed away into the attic. _Definitely not a cat_, he concluded as he took a few, tentative steps into the room, careful of where he put his feet.

He couldn't hear anything moving around at the moment and it was nearly impossible to smell the actual animal over the heavy smell of shit and urine. Whatever it was, it was most likely nocturnal like a raccoon and would come out later that night. Until then, he could call Animal Control and have a professional stop by to deal with it. He'd never had to deal with animal infestation before so he had no idea where to even start. It had never been a problem at his house because only an animal with no desire to go on living would go willingly creeping into a blutbad's den.

"Well, Olive, I'm not an expert when it comes to identifying… animal excrement, so it's possible it's a combination of different animals. Honestly I'm not sure there's really much I can do for you… We should call a professional exterminator."

"Oh, I sure hope they don't kill the poor thing."

Monroe just rolled his eyes, though careful not to let her see him. If his house had been damaged the way hers was, he wouldn't mind a new coonskin cap or a fluffy pair of boots to wear while he re-plastered his ceiling and walls.

Suddenly something caught his eye. Continuing to be careful of where he stepped, Monroe crossed the room to examine the net of teddy bears. There tucked among the many was a bear that resembled one he'd had as a child; he couldn't help but smile when he touched his fingers to the worn, soft fabric of its belly. As children, Monroe was the only one of his siblings who hadn't chewed off all the arms and legs of his stuffed bear and ripped out its insides like a heathen, but then again, Monroe had always been the softest of the lot. The next time he visited his mother he'd have to see if she still had his bear stored away somewhere; he wouldn't mind seeing it again.

He examined some of the other stuffed toys and was about to reach out and pull one down to look at it closer when he suddenly jolted backwards as a set of beady eyes staring into on his own suddenly moved. Buried among the bears was a face that didn't belong there. Didn't belong anywhere near him. He darted around the bed, never turning his back, and practically yelped when the possum suddenly lunged across the room at him, landing on the bed with a hiss. He threw himself backwards, his back crashing into a dresser as he scrambled to get away from the foul beast. He had a particular weakness for possums; there was just something about them that he hated more than anything else. It seemed ridiculous for a grown man (a blutbad no less) to be reduced to such terror at the sight of something so small, but if grown men could scream and cry at the sight of a spider and claim arachnophobia, he was allowed this one weakness, damn it. Everyone was allowed their one thing. He realized that it was likely more afraid of him that anything as it was posturing defensively, but he didn't care! He wanted to hiss right back at it and if he was a little braver, swipe at it with his claws, but he doubted Olive would appreciate blood and possum insides sprayed across her walls, not to mention how difficult it would be to explain how he'd managed to kill it so effortlessly.

Oh, he wished it had been rats. He absolutely hated possums. Just looking into their beady, little evil eyes and their ugly little faces, all covered in that disgusting, clumpy fur. And oh, how he hated the way their scaly little tail would drag behind them! What an abomination on god's green earth! They even looked like they were crawling with disease and smelled about as lovely as the shit they left behind. He didn't particularly like rats, but he would prefer a horde of them to that… _that thing_. At least rats had small, debatably cute faces. 'Debatably,' being key.

Monroe watched in horror as the duvet under the possum's feet began to move. Suddenly a little head peeked out, then another…

"Oh, god, there's more!"

Olive grabbed at his arm with her little frail one, startling Monroe to the point where he almost took a swipe at her. Luckily he caught himself in time.

"Come on, let's leave them be," she said in a kind, yet firm voice.

"You're lucky you have children," Monroe growled at the possum as he backed out the door, stabbing his finger in its direction. _I'll get you next time, _he threatened in his head; even he knew how much he sounded like a cartoon villain, but he didn't care. He quickly shut the door before the possum could escape and get at him.

"Well, I've never seen one of them do _that _before," Olive commented, a hint of humor in her voice to Monroe's irritation. Monroe just screwed up his face and bit his tongue.

When they returned downstairs, Monroe grumbled, "We're going to have to call Animal Control. There's nothing I can do." He didn't wait for her reply, just went ahead and located the telephone book and arranged for someone to stop by the next day. She hummed and hawed, worrying they'd euthanize the possum and her offspring, but Monroe thought she should just be thankful he didn't go to the nearest gun emporium and machine gun that little bastard all over the walls like he wanted to. She thankfully didn't mention the incident later except to ask if Monroe knew anyone who could repair walls. Unable to stop himself, Monroe volunteered to do it, but only _after _the room had been professionally sanitized (no doubt the smell would linger for months afterward, but he'd cope somehow).

At the moment, his boots were currently soaking in a tub of hot water and bleach and he was wearing a pair of her deceased husbands slippers, a least a size and a half too small but better than bare socks on the basement floor. He spent the next hour and a half carrying boxes down to the basement and helping her scrub the floor for the bedroom and launder the blankets and sheets. He wasn't entirely sure why he was still helping her; it really wasn't his business, but it seemed like the right sort of thing to do. Something Nick might do, no, _would do_.

And he was sort of enjoying himself.

As promised, Olive presented Monroe with a heaping plate of sugar cookies and a decent cup of tea. She even offered to make him lunch, which he declined, but she went ahead and made him a grilled cheese sandwich anyway. He really did feel like a kid, but it was a warm, welcoming sort of feel, not embarrassing at all. His grandmother had passed away when he was 34, so it was nice to have a touch of her back in his life again even when gained vicariously through Olive.

When Olive finished puttering around the kitchen, she settled into the chair across from him with her usual pleasant smile on her lips. She had her own cup of tea in hand and helped herself to a few cookies before she asked in a sympathetic voice, "Did you break up with that boyfriend of yours? He seemed so nice…"

"Um…" Monroe was at a sudden loss. Nick? How did she know about Nick? And why would she assume he was his boyfriend in the first place? Why not assume it was his brother or something?

"Sort of… yes," he replied slowly, not sure if he should be denying his relationship with him to her, or more like clarify since they'd only been friends.

"That's too bad," she said with a sigh. "He was such a handsome thing. I saw him come by the other day and drop something in your mailbox. What was it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"In… in my mailbox? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I couldn't quite tell what it was," she said, a finger tapping against her bottom lip, "but he seemed to have quite a bit of difficulty getting it in there."

Monroe sat there for a moment, his whole body aching to run out the door. She looked at him with expectant eyes.

"If, if you'll excuse me," Monroe mumbled as politely as possible as he stumbled out of his chair and hurried out of her house. He raced across her yard to the side walk and managed to run into a group of young children on bikes, nearly bowling several of them over. A few of the parents shot him dirty looks, but he didn't really notice. He burst back into his own house and went tearing through the stack of mail in search for anything that could possibly be from Nick. He went through the stack several times, nearly ripped the door off of the mailbox when he searched through it as well, before he had to admit to himself that there was nothing there.

Had she been seeing things? He doubted she would lie to him, even to make him feel better. Either someone had stolen it out of his mailbox, Nick had returned to pick it up, or Nick was the one to steal something out of it instead. He highly doubted that, so it was one of the former two. Dejected, he slumped back to Olive's house empty handed.

"Did you find it?" she asked with a hopeful look in her eyes.

"No, whatever it was, it's not there now. How long ago was that?"

"Hm," she murmured as she placed a hand against the side of her face. "Must have been at least a week ago… no, or was it the week before that…? I'm sorry, sweetie. I hope no one stole it…"

He didn't know what to say, so he just fell silent. He wondered what it could have possibly been. He couldn't remember having left anything at Nick's before, or in his truck, so it was unlikely he was returning something and it was equally unlikely that it was a gift of any sort since Nick had no reason to give him anything.

She'd said that he'd had a hard time trying to get it in his mailbox… He doubted Nick would purposely try to cram something dangerous into it. The most likely scenario he could devise was Nick had come by, noticed something crammed haphazardly into his mailbox - likely falling out - and had tried to fix it because he was a nice guy, even though that something could have been a clock or something equally as fragile and should have been left on his doorstep instead… unless Monroe hadn't been home. Which he hadn't been lately…

Which meant that Nick had stopped by his house while he was gone… _Oh, shit! _

But that also meant that Nick had wanted to talk, even if all he wanted to do was exchange heated words. Even so, that meant there was still a semblance of hope…!

There was a sense of elation that captured Monroe's heart then, sent him soaring right through the roof. He wanted to run, for a different reason, wanted to tear through the woods and whoop for joy.

Nick wanted to see him again!

* * *

Monroe thanked Olive for the cookies and lunch before he raced home. He was too excitable to immediately go see Nick, didn't want to say or do something rash, so instead he pulled out his recently neglected cello. Considering what he'd done to the rest of the house, he'd purposely avoided it since he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't destroy it in a fit of rage. His cello was one of his most prized possessions, a gift from his parents at a very young age. His cello was both a bitter enemy and his closest friend - when he struggled through melodies that left his fingers bleeding and in those moments when all he had was the music singing in his ears. If he did something purposely to destroy his precious instrument, he would never forgive himself.

Now as his fingers picked up the bow, his body relaxing into its familiar curve, the joy he felt flowed easily through his fingertips in a melody purely his own. If he could capture the notes in his memory just long enough, he might call it _'Nick No.4,' _three others predating it. This one hopeful and charming, the first one confused, the second one happy, the third one filled with longing.

He played until his fingers were sore and felt as though they may crack and bleed, but nothing could dim the light feeling in his heart.

* * *

Monroe replaced his cello in its case and settled comfortably onto the couch; for the first time in too long he really forced himself to concentrate. He wasn't going to let himself have any more excuses. He wasn't going to let himself run anymore. Tomorrow was the day he'd bite the bullet and grovel at Nick's feet for forgiveness. He needed to apologize to the younger man and he had an idea of where to start. It wouldn't put things back to square one again, but if Nick accepted the first apology, he'd spend the rest of his life making it up to him.

He easily fell asleep that night dreaming of Nick, this time alive and smiling brilliantly.

* * *

Monroe woke bright and early the next morning and planned on using every moment to prepare an apology dinner for Nick. The day before, after Monroe had gone to arrange for a dumpster to be brought to his house, he'd purchased a couple of steaks. He hadn't cooked them yet, so it was perfect timing. They were really nice cuts, he just hoped Nick liked steak, he couldn't remember. He quickly made up a marinade, tenderized them before stuffing them back in the fridge to soak.

A homemade steak dinner was a laughable offering, but it was a start.

Monroe had stopped eating at McDonalds completely, which was a step in the right direction, but he was still eating meat. At least he was eating better selections of meat, less processed since he was back to grocery shopping once a week. But he hadn't been very enthusiastic when the first thing the man behind the meat counter had said to him was, _"I thought you were vegan." _Monroe knew they'd talked a few times over the past years, but he'd never expected him to remember something like that. Perhaps because they were both Blutbaden it had stuck in his mind.

"_I'm regressing," _was Monroe's reply as he pointed out the particular cuts he wanted, hoping to be done conversing. The other blutbad hadn't said much, just chuckled and wished him the best while also recommending a particularly good marinade - the one he was actually using on the steaks for Nick. They chatted a bit more these days, but he wasn't about to get too friendly. He didn't need to regress anymore than he already was. He was a step away from hunting live animals, and live animals were the gateway prey. Well, that's what he'd heard from his Weider coaches anyway.

He was planning on becoming a vegan again; for awhile he'd fooled himself into believing that eating meat wasn't really having a negative impact on him, but when he caught himself salivating over the raw meat in the fridge, he knew he was risking a lot by indulging his cravings. He figured this would be his last hoorah before he turned his back once more on meat and his wild self and tried to become the person Nick had become friends with, or more accurately, the man Nick had _wanted _to be friends with.

* * *

It was nearing five when Monroe finished piping the last bit of mauve-colored icing onto the chocolate-raspberry cake he'd slaved over for the better part of the afternoon. He'd already cooked the steaks and had finished the sides earlier in the day, saving the dessert for last. This time he did know that Nick would like it; the last time he'd bothered to a make that particular recipe, Nick had looked longingly at Monroe's piece after he'd finished his own. Hopefully Nick would like the rest of the food, but then again, he'd never complained before, so why wouldn't he?

Monroe set down the bag of icing and swept a hand over his face, wiping a bit of powered sugar from his cheek. He brushed off his hands on his apron before he took it off and headed upstairs for a shower.

* * *

Fresh out of the shower, Monroe combed his ridiculously long hair - he would need to get it cut soon, it just looked bad - trimmed his beard and found his nicest shirt and pants. He was thankful he always kept his dress clothes in the closet; he'd purchased a cheapo dresser and had washed the plaster and dirt from his clothing, but occasionally he still found chunks of wood in shirts and more unpleasantly, his underwear. Not the best surprise to find early in the day; it certainly gave new meaning to the phrase 'morning wood.'

He fitted himself with a tie and stared at himself in the full length closet mirror.

He looked incredibly stupid. What, was he going over there to ask Nick to marry him or something? He looked like a complete idiot. He wasn't even taking Nick to a fancy restaurant or anything; they were just going to sit in Nick's dining room, the other man probably in a pair of sweats and a grungy t-shirt. Not that Monroe's clothes were designer or even that great since he'd never looked very good in suits; what he had on now was sort of an odd mishmash of things and he looked sort of hokey; even still, they were a little overly dressy. He wasn't sure why it mattered if he dressed well, Nick might just slam the door in his face anyway, but he figured it would seem disrespectful if he didn't act like he was trying.

He finished with a bit of cologne, something he usually neglected since it bothered his nose, but it seemed appropriate for the occasion; he located his best dress shoes and slipped them on before he clomped on down the stairs.

He wrapped up the steaks and scooped the sides into separate containers, putting the whole thing in a cloth grocery bag and carrying it out to the car, the cake in another one. There was one last stop to make before he could drive to Nick's.

Along the way to the younger man's house there was a really nice flower shop he'd stopped at before to buy flowers for Rosalee, not that Nick would know that. Seemed a little tacky when he thought about it that way. Nevertheless, _he was buying flowers for Nick_.

* * *

He caught himself before he could buy Nick a dozen red roses, what sort of creep was he? It's not like he was trying to seduce Nick at this point, that point had passed long ago. A sympathy bouquet wasn't really appropriate… well, it was, sort of..? What sort of flowers did you buy for someone you assaulted?

_How about rape blossoms, that seems about right. Cheery little flowers. Would go nice next to Nick's livid stare. _And _they're edible! Oh, yum._

"Do you need help with anything?"

Startled, Monroe looked up and found the young cashier watching him. She gave him a helpful smile.

"Oh, uh…" _Why not?_ "this is sort of embarrassing… what would you give to someone as an apology? I'm… fighting with my girlfriend, and I need something to say I'm sorry, like_ really sorry_."

"Oh, well, we have a little card with common flowers and their meanings," she said as she walked behind the counter and pulled out a piece of cardstock the size of a business card. He gratefully accepted it and busily began to peruse it.

"So, what are you two fighting about?" she asked casually. "You didn't forget your anniversary, did you?"

"Believe me, you don't want to know," Monroe said dismissively with the wave of his hand. "Let's just say I was a complete jerk to him." When he heard his own words, he quickly spat out, "Her! A jerk to _her!_"

The girl's brows disappeared under her bangs before she laughed. "Okay, whatever."

Monroe rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, completely frazzled. Why'd he let that slip? But honestly she looked like she really didn't care. And why should she? She didn't know him. He glanced back down at the card in his hand and located the word 'apology' on the backside.

"Alright, I'll take a dozen yellow roses, I guess," Monroe said, pleased that he'd found something suitable.

"Um," the girl hesitated, "yellow roses also mean friendship… your… 'girlfriend?' might take it the wrong way. Are you sure you want yellow?"

"Oh, well, I think he'd get pissed at me… she'd get pissed at me… What the hell do you care? _He'd_ get pissed at me if I showed up with a dozen red roses. I don't think he'd ever forgive me for that _on top of what he's already pissed at me about._"

"Sounds… really complicated."

"It is. Very. Just being friends at this point would be a godsend."

"Oo-kay. A dozen yellow roses it is," she said as she rung him up. "We're open until 8:00 if you want to buy a second dozen, just in case you get lucky tonight." She shot him a wink and Monroe couldn't help but smile despite himself.

"If only I were ever so blessed."

* * *

Monroe hesitated. There was a car he didn't recognize in the driveway and Nick's truck was nowhere to be seen. Did he buy himself a new car? It was rather fancy, a few years older, but still way nice. Or was it a new girlfriend? Not that it should matter to him. What business was it of his if Nick got a new girlfriend? The man deserved it for everything he'd been through in the last two months.

As he approached the house, a thought occurred to him. He only had two steaks. It would be rather inappropriate of him to have dinner alone with Nick when the other man had a new girlfriend and all. Maybe he could just drop off the food and wish them the best of luck; perhaps it would seem like a step in the right direction. And besides, Nick would have to return his containers eventually, maybe…

He sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself, before he approached the door and rang the bell. As he was waiting patiently for Nick to answer, another thought occurred to him, one far worse that made him want to turn tail and run.

What if Nick was dating a man instead? He could totally handle Nick with another woman, he was used to that… but a man? With just the thought, he was already feeling jealous despite the fact that he had no right to feel that way in the first place. He was seriously debating leaving, his feet turning in that direction, when the latch clicked and the door swung open.

Okay, so it was a woman. A decently good-looking one at that. She was about his age and was rather tall and slender with obviously dyed platinum blonde hair and designer clothing, though she dressed maybe a little too young for her age. When she saw him, her face momentarily drooped with a look of mild disappointment as she gave him a once over with her eyes. Was she expecting someone else? She stared at him for a bit longer before she leaned against the door frame, a coy little grin crossing her face. Monroe quirked a brow and frowned before he glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see someone standing behind him. Was that smile for him? What… _Why?!_

"Are those for me?" she asked as she nodded at the flowers. "I wasn't expecting such a warm welcome. You're such a gentleman."

Monroe glanced down at the roses in his hand; when he turned his gaze back to the woman, he caught her trying to discreetly slip the gold band from around her finger into the front of her jeans. She smoothed her newly bare left hand over her breasts, pausing at the top two buttons of her salmon-colored blouse. One of her fingers caught against a pearly button, the very edge of her fingertip sliding against the slick plastic. Monroe watched with both horror and dark curiosity; she wasn't really going to undo her shirt, was she…? _For him? _Outside where _everyone _could see them? He was just about to open his mouth to say anything to stop her when two screaming children ran past her back and trampled up the stairs. Her eyes slid to the side, a look of mortification crossing her features before she turned to smile at him again, her head tilting to the side and her eyelashes fluttering several times as though hoping to distract him from what he'd just seen and heard.

"Uh… Hi," Monroe coughed, not quite sure what exactly had happened in the last minute and a half. He couldn't imagine what Nick had seen in this woman; sure she was beautiful, but if she had the gall to flirt with him of all people, he couldn't imagine she had a great personality. What had Nick gotten himself into? And kids? With this woman? Oh, god, he hoped he hadn't _married _her, he'd seen the ring after all.

At her expectant look, he continued, "Can I speak to Nick, please?"

She frowned and blinked several times; he felt a measure of relief from her confusion, then an ounce of anxiety. "_Nick_?" she squeaked.

"Uh, Nick… Nick Burkhardt…? He lives here… I thought he did, anyway…"

He glanced at the numbers on the house, positive it was the right one.

"Oh! _That _Nick!" she suddenly blurted with wide, blue eyes. "I just _love_ him! He's just the best! Are you a… _friend _of his, or something?" She eyed him with a look of surprise as though Nick was too good to be friends with the likes of him; which he was, but he didn't need this lady he'd never met before reminding him of that little fact.

"Uh, yeah. I… was out of town for awhile. I heard about what happened…" he trailed off; he couldn't believe he'd almost divulged private information about Nick to this strange lady. "Just… thought I would stop by, see how he's doing."

He was disturbed when she said, "Oh, I _know_. What a pity about his girlfriend going crazy and all. Such a good looking man like that… Such a pity."

Monroe wanted to growl, '_Back off, bitch,' _but gave her a tight-lipped smile instead.

"So… you don't happen to know where he moved to, do you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't know. We just bought the place."

"You… and your husband?"

"Hmm?" she hummed as though she hadn't quite heard him. Monroe just rolled his eyes a little, still amazed by her audacious behavior.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you," Monroe said as he started to turn.

"No, wait!" she cried; Monroe was startled by her desire for him to stay. "I could give you his phone number, if you don't have it…"

"You… talk to Nick?"

"Well, yes, we are becoming quite good friends. I have it here somewhere," she murmured as she turned to rummage through a desk near the stairs. "Ah, here it is."

What she handed him confirmed that she did indeed know Nick. It was his business card. He was disturbed and irritated by the smudge of lipstick on the bottom corner over his phone number.

"You're okay giving this to me..?" Monroe asked while holding up the card.

"Well, I do have it in my phone… I suppose I don't need it anymore." She actually sounded a little depressed having to forfeit the card; it made Monroe glad he was taking it even though he already had the number. He would smile wickedly if it wasn't so creepy.

Speaking of creepy, a man he assumed to be her husband sort of just meandered into the foyer as silently as a ghost. Monroe wasn't trying to be judgmental, but there was just something… off about him. He didn't say anything, didn't ask who Monroe was or _why _he had a bouquet of roses in his hand. Didn't he care that his wife was flirting with some random guy especially while he was in the other room? Or was this something he was used to..?

"Hi…" Monroe said awkwardly as he nodded his head at the man. The other guy didn't reply, didn't smile, just stared at him quietly. "Ookay…"

Without warning, the man's eyes started to travel down Monroe's torso in a way that made Monroe extremely uncomfortable. Was he… _eyeing him? What the fuh… _His features were so bland and uninvolved he couldn't be sure. No, he was absolutely positive something perverted was going through that weirdo's head because his lips were curling away from his teeth into a disturbing grin.

"It's a pity you had to drive _all the way here_ _for nothing_," the woman said, completely ignoring or immune to the look of horror crossing Monroe's face. "Why don't you come in for awhile? Sit down and have some coffee."

"We have cake," the man said, his tone flat. He held up a piece of what appeared to be birthday cake.

"Uh…"

_Oh, hell no! What's to say you won't drug me and chain me up in your sex dungeon, you sick weirdoes!_ He knew if he stepped into that house, he'd be drawn and quartered for something even more unpleasant than getting his arms and legs ripped off.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, really," Monroe replied without further hesitation, "but I really should go. Get a hold of Nick. Been awhile and all. See how he's doing. But here, why don't you keep these," he said quickly as he pushed the flowers into her hands. Her chest puffed up excitedly, her eyes round as saucers.

"Aw, you are just the _sweetest_. I'd love for you to stop by again sometime, I'd really like to get to know my neighbors more intimately, if you know what I mean." She winked at him. An uncomfortable laugh sort of fell out of Monroe's mouth; when he glanced past her shoulder to see her husband's reaction, he was disturbed to find the man taking a bite out of the cake in a way that Monroe assumed was supposed to be taken as erotic, but was just truly creepy. The man swallowed the cake slowly before sucking on a frosting covered finger. And then he winked too…

"Okay, I'm leaving now," Monroe stated loudly, not even caring to be polite. The people were freaks anyway.

"Oh, wait!" the woman cried, grabbing a hold of Monroe's arm before he could run away.

_What now?_

"You look sort of familiar… have we met before?" _God, no!_ "I feel like I've seen you somewhere before…"

"Um, maybe…" _I never go anywhere, how the hell would you recognize me? _About the only time he ever went out, aside with Nick, was grocery shopping. "I shop at Zupan's and Whole Foods a lot…"

"Oh, I bet that's it! We're quite the health nuts."

_Yeah_, he thought, wanting to laugh. _You are nuts. _

"Stop by anytime, sweetie," the woman said as Monroe inched further and further away from the door. "And do bring your friend."

He gave her a tight lipped smile before he stiffly turned around and walked as swiftly back to his car as possible. When he was safely back inside of the safety and comfort of his own car, he glanced back at the house was horrified to find the man and woman still watching him. He was driving down the street a moment later, hoping to put as much distance between himself and them as possible. If he was lucky, he'd never see the likes of them again.

He fully realized why the woman was flirting with him; it was to get to Nick since he greatly doubted the two of them were friendly. If Nick had met these weird people, he doubted he would communicate with either of them willingly. And if she thought she was getting a three-way out of them - or a four-way, he shuddered as the image of the man eating cake replayed in his mind - she was horribly mistaken. They both were.

* * *

When Monroe returned home, he tossed the food back into the refrigerator before he pulled out his cello once more, doing his best to forget everything that had just happened. He didn't even bother changing out of his clothes, though he discarded his outer jacket. Eventually the light faded, swallowing him into night. Even yet he continued to play, using his other senses to find the right notes in the darkness of the room. He was perfectly content to sit there until the dawning sun rose when there was a firm knock at his door. Monroe wasn't sure what to expect when he stumbled to the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see his neighbor, Jacquie, staring up at him. She was barefoot wearing a pair of pajama pants and a sweatshirt. Her arms were hugged tight across her chest and she wore a look of nervousness as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

"Hi," she said slowly, her eyes darting away from his face and then back. "You play really well, _really, really well, _but I need to get up for work in a few hours, so if it was possible…"

"Oh! I'm sorry," Monroe immediately apologized, surprised his cello was that loud. "I didn't realize what time…" Monroe glanced down at his wristwatch and was startled to see that it was after 3:00. "Oh, my god, I had no idea…!"

Staring at her, he thought of something. "Here, hold on," he said.

Monroe left her standing there, lips pursed, on the porch and returned a moment later with the food from the night before, save the cake. He would be eating that alone.

"What's this?" she asked as Monroe handed her the bag.

"Steaks. I made them for dinner last night for my friend as an apology, but he… Well, long story short, it didn't work out. I'm actually a vegetarian, so I'm not going to be eating these. Please take it as an apology for keeping you up. You can return the containers whenever, don't worry about it."

She nodded her head quietly, her eyes peering down at the contents of the bag in amazement.

"Did you make this all yourself?"

"Oh, yeah. Cooking's sort of my thing…"

"Wow… Thank you." She beamed up at him as she said, "I'm surprised you're such a nice guy."

Monroe's brows furrowed, honestly confused. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes widened and her smile faltered as she realized she'd said something she wasn't supposed to. "O-oh, I'm sorry, it's just that… there were some pretty nasty rumors floating around about you, but obviously they aren't true!" Her laugh was a nervous titter like a little bird. She looked ready to fly off at any second.

"It's fine, don't worry about it. I'm used to it, really."

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Jacquie blurted out, "Well, I like you. Would you like to have dinner sometime?"

"Dinner..?" Monroe asked slowly. _She's rather forward considering this is the first conversation we've _ever _had…_

"Just casual, at our house. I'd hate for you to be all alone after what happened." At Monroe's look, she added, "After you broke up with your boyfriend and everything. Just listening to you play was so heartbreaking. We single gals, well, you know, we gotta stick together."

She reached out a hand and sympathetically gripped Monroe's forearm, a determined look in her eyes. Monroe was so utterly lost; where in the hell did she get 'boyfriend' from anything he'd said just now? And wasn't she _just _asking him to dinner?

"Do… you know Nick somehow?"

"Nick?" she asked. "Your ex?"

"Um, I guess…"

"Well, I never actually met him, but I've seen him several times. Tall, good-looking with dark hair?"

"Yep, that's Nick…" Monroe said with a sigh. Why did everyone assume he was gay just because Nick stopped by his house frequently? Or, well used to that is. What about Angelina? How could anyone forget her Harley screaming down the street at all hours of the night and the loud, drunken fights they used to get into? How was everyone's memories that short? Angelina wasn't the easiest person to forget, except on this street apparently.

"Um, forgive me for asking, but how did you know that Nick…"

"How did I know that he was your boyfriend?" She laughed. "You don't have to be ashamed, I have a cousin who's gay. It doesn't make a difference to me! Honestly I just assumed he was your friend for the longest time until I saw him a few days ago banging down your door. The pieces sort of just fell together after that."

"'Banging down my door…?'"

"When you two were fighting…? He seemed really upset, I felt sort of bad for him…"

"I don't…"

"Weren't you home? Your car was in the driveway, I thought."

There was a dawning moment of realization as everything made sense at once, especially the sudden attention from his neighbors and this assumption by people he'd never even had a conversation with before assuming Nick was his (now ex)boyfriend.

"No! I was - I was out! He must have stopped by when I was gone. I had no idea."

"Ah, no wonder he's pissed. But hey! That means there's hope, right?"

Indeed, that is if Nick agreed to give him a second chance _on top of everything else. _He couldn't stop by Nick's house now - he still didn't understand why Nick had moved, was it to get away from him? Seemed a bit extreme. Was it related to Juliette? Too many memories in that house? Monroe would have to get Nick's new address from Hank - the very thought churned his stomach - or give him a call, which was easier, but impersonal when Nick deserved the whole nine yards from him.

He sighed and focused his attention back on the woman standing in front of him. He agreed a bit reluctantly to dinner with her and her family before he bid her goodnight. Jacquie seemed exceedingly pleased with herself and gave him a bright smile and thanked him again for the food. He watched her walk back to her house and made sure she got in okay before he closed and locked the door again. He flipped on a light and stared down at his cello resting against the couch. He supposed he wouldn't be playing anymore that night. As he was putting it back in its case, he realized he'd forgotten to tell her he wasn't gay… Not that it really mattered; he'd probably have dinner with her and her kids once and then they'd go back to their normal, nonexistent relationship. But it was better she thought he was unavailable since the last thing he needed at the moment was a new girlfriend, especially a human one at that. He'd tried dating humans before, but it was never worth the hassle trying to hide his true self and explaining away strange habits and behaviors. And now that his behavior was increasingly sporadic and unpredictable, it was truly a bad idea to surround himself with vulnerable humans; he'd hate to gobble up her children on a whim. She was too nice for that and he'd really rather not go to prison for the rest of his life for murder and 'cannibalism.'

And besides, he had Nick and Rosalee to think about first; he'd already put off Rosalee for Nick and at the moment the younger man was still in the forefront of his mind. He really couldn't let anyone else in until he'd dealt with that first.

Laying there on the couch trying to fall asleep, his mind was filled with thoughts of Nick again. He was depressed still and more than a little upset with himself, but that little bit of happiness he'd felt when he thought there was some hope floated there behind it all and kept the monsters at bay when he finally sunk below the surface of his dreams.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read. This is the half-way point. Six more chapters to go. :)


	7. ABSOLUTION III: SOLACE

Thank you for everyone's kind thoughts and for everyone who has added this story to their favorites and/or their watch list. I apologize for the long wait; school has been horrible this quarter and I have had a lot of changes in my personal life lately. I have not done a final reading of this all together; I hope there's not too many inconsistencies. If you notice one, please let me know. Reviews are always great, criticism always welcome. Please point out what I could do better; I am a fledgling author in need of guidance. : ) Without further ado, chapter 7.

* * *

ABSOLUTION: Solace

The first thing Hank said when Nick walked through the doors and up to his desk was, "You look happy this morning," a somewhat knowing grin stretched across his face. Nick smiled back at the older man and gave an exuberant stretch before sitting down.

"Do I? First night in my new house. I'm feeling good."

"Alone?" Hank asked with a suggestive undertone.

"The seat's still warm, Hank."

"..What's that supposed to mean?"

"Juliette. I don't move on that quickly."

Hank's face fell, a look of both mortification and sadness crossing his features. "Sorry, Nick," he apologized. "You know I cared for Juliette, too. I'm just concerned about you."

"Thanks, but I'm okay. Sometimes it's just hard to comprehend that I'll never see her again, not even as just friends."

"Maybe someday," Hank offered in a comforting voice. "Right now she's confused, but maybe one day the two of you could try again. You said she's getting better, right?"

Nick wanted so badly to tell Hank everything; everything about wesen, Monroe, why he would never be able to see Juliette again, but he couldn't. Not yet anyway. Nick just gave Hank a noncommittal smile and leaned back in his chair.

Even though it'd been about a week since he'd moved to the new house, he'd been staying in a motel at night when there was really no reason to as his bed had been one of the first things to make the move. It had taken Nick an unusual amount of gumption to spend that first night alone in that big empty house. He wasn't afraid of anyone hurting him - though he had more than enough reasons to fear something like that since he was alone out in the country - it was what that first night in the house meant that left him feeling uneasy.

New room, new house, new life. A life without Juliette or Monroe. It was both emotionally exhausting and liberating. Lonely, but coursing with potential. Eventually he'd find a new girlfriend and get married and have children. Or not. Likely not. His parents had managed it somehow. He wondered if there was some sort of Grimm convention he could go to and meet eligible Grimm bachelorettes (or bachelors if he was gusty enough to date a man for real). How _did _Grimms find each other anyway? Or was it just luck of the draw? Would he even recognize another Grimm if he met one or would they just pass each other by on the street?

When he felt keen to speak to his mother again, he'd ask her.

Or maybe he'd take a different route. What if he dated someone like Rosalee? Obviously not Rosalee since she was dating Monroe, but a wesen girl. Fuchsbaue were kind of cute; Eisbiber not so bad; Mauzhertz not the worst things ever…

Really it came back to the Blutbaden. Always came full circle back to Monroe. Didn't help when the only wesen he wanted to date was staunchly unavailable.

"No company at all?" Hank asked, startling Nick. He looked up from his computer at the older man's face.

"No."

"What about Monroe?"

Nick's breath caught for a quick second, his heart stopping. Monroe? Why was he bringing up Monroe all of a sudden? Nick quirked a brow, unsure of what Hank could possibly mean by that.

"What about him? I thought you hated him… Why are you asking about him now?"

Hank gave a heavy sigh. "It's not that I _hate _him, he's just so… weird, it sort of creeps me out."

Nick laughed. "He's a really nice guy once you get to know him, really. And besides, how often do you meet someone who could tell you all you ever wanted to know about trains, or clocks, or old cameras anyway?"

"How often do you _think _I want to meet someone who can tell me all I ever wanted to know about trains and clocks and whatever else you just said?"

Nick chuckled and shook his head in defeat. "Point taken."

"And I swear in the last few months he's everywhere I turn," Hank continued. "And not to mention waking up in Adalind's house with his ugly mug staring down at me. Not exactly who I expected to see."

_Oops. _"Yeah, that's my fault. I asked him to look in on you."

"But _why?_" Hank asked, a perplexed look on his face."And in all this time, you've never _once _told me he was your friend."

Nick didn't particularly want to answer those questions since he didn't have an appropriate answer for either one. "I didn't?" Nick asked in an innocent tone, taking his chances with the second one. "I thought that was pretty much implied…"

"I don't know," Hank answered. "Half the time it seemed like you didn't want to be associated with him. But other times, you'd just drop his name in conversation like you were talking about Juliette or something."

"You're not seriously putting Monroe on the same level as Juliette, are you?"

"Should I be?"

What did that mean, Nick wondered anxiously. "Hank, he's my friend, but I'm certainly not as close to him as I am to you," Nick said, pleased with his own save. "I'm sorry I never told you I was friends with him, but honestly I thought you just knew, and I didn't think it really mattered all that much. Not to mention, I was a little embarrassed about the whole thing considering I was the one who had him thrown into the back of a police car while his house was ransacked. If everyone knew I'd become friends with him after that, I'd never live it down."

Hank laughed. "True, true. I'm surprised you two talk at all."

Nick should have left it at that, but he said with an uncomfortable laugh, "So why are we talking about this again?"

Hank's face sobered; it made Nick feel anxious again. "Well, I just don't recall seeing him moving boxes. You two seem close enough that the least he could do is help you move."

Nick hesitated. The look on Hank's face was one he'd seen several times over the years; it meant he was working out the pieces to a puzzle in his brain. And from the looks of it, he'd come to some sort of conclusion. What that conclusion might be, Nick had no idea, but he hoped it was nowhere near the truth.

"Oh, well he's so busy with work," Nick quickly began to lie, embarrassed at how blatant his words really were. If he was a better person, he might feel bad for how often he chose to lie than to fess up, especially when his lies were so contrived. "You remember he makes clocks, right? Well he ended up getting several orders, one right after another, but he came over the day before to help me move some things from storage."

Hank stared at him and Nick knew the other man didn't believe him for a second, but there was also this sliver of something, hope maybe? that he wanted to believe Nick was telling him the truth. Maybe Hank knew they were fighting, maybe he'd figured it out somehow. Nick didn't know how that was even possible or why he'd be even concerned about it. Nick would just have to watch what he said and did a little more closely so as not to slip up any more than he already had. He always tried to keep his personal feelings on the down low or at least try to pretend everything was okay just so people wouldn't ask. It wasn't that he couldn't trust Hank, he'd trust the man with his life, but he wouldn't know what to do if Hank began to dislike him because he fell in love with a man. Hank wasn't a particularly hateful person, and he never seemed to have a problem with homosexuals, but it was always different when it struck closer to home. First it would start with an uncomfortable distance that would grow and fester until Nick felt so anxious and desperate that he'd rather transfer or change partners. It wouldn't be Hank's fault of course, because the man would never outright say he had a problem with it, it would just be that unsaid thing between them.

He didn't want to lose Hank. Hank was the second closest person to him. If he lost Juliette, Monroe and Hank all at once, what would he have left? Would he have anything? He was friends with Rosalee of course, but it was hard to look her in the eyes knowing she had Monroe when he didn't, and he never wanted to resent her for something like that.

"Nick?"

"Huh, what?" Nick asked, looking up from his keyboard to Hank's face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Nick quickly replied, the brightest grin he could manage stretched across his face.

Hank just stared at him for a moment longer before he shrugged. "Okay."

* * *

"See you later, Hank," Nick said as he walked toward his vehicle later that night.

Hank smiled and shook his head as he called after the younger man, "Tell Monroe, 'hi' for me."

Nick didn't look back, but shook his head as well and laughed. "Will do, Hank."

He wasn't sure what Hank was driving at or if the older man was just teasing him. Most likely the latter. He waved once more to Hank as he drove past the senior detective before making the long drive home. He was getting off late so the traffic wasn't all that bad. Eventually the city melted away to countryside, trees and telephone poles replacing skyscrapers. Even the heavy asphalt lines faded into dusty gravel as Nick turned down a country road and followed it all the way to the end. There were a few houses here and there along the way, each one lonely; dim golden lights like stars in the darkness. His house stood alone at the end, his closest neighbor at least a mile away. He parked in his usual spot in front of the run down garage and sat for a long time just examining his house.

In all honesty, it was perhaps the ugliest thing ever created. He absolutely adored it for that very reason. In a way, it was like him. Shabby, skeletal. Ostracized and relegated out to the sticks. They were two lonely bastards out in the middle of nowhere, somehow made for each other.

When Nick first stumbled upon the house, he hadn't known quite what to think of it. It was an eyesore in so many ways. Originally the home had been a rather attractive old farmhouse, but at some point, someone had come along and tried to build on to it in an L-shape, adding brick and mortar in a Eastern Colonial Manor style. Two story, low peaked roof. Orange brick with white trim and black shutters. The farmhouse part, which was a third as large, was painted in an awful yellow color with pale eggshell blue trim and gray slate roofing, even despite being bound to the flesh of the brick like a parasitic twin. It looked, for lack of a better word, horrifically stupid. It made him laugh. Not even the roofing matched as the tiles were two different shades of gray.

Visually, it looked obnoxious, but it wasn't something that couldn't be easily overlooked with a new paint job. The extra bit built onto the back of the house sealed the deal and really hurt the value of the house. The previous owner, an artist himself, had built on a rather spacious studio. It was the largest of any of the rooms in the house, stretching some 40 feet in one direction. It'd been quite modern and chic at the time he'd built it, which had been sometime during the early 60's. Now it just looked horribly dated and hideous and even squinting couldn't make it belong anywhere on the property. The walls were comprised of cement and steel pillars and large half-length windows, most of which opened outwards a half-foot or so. The floors were a smooth cement, the ceiling at an angle with raised steel rafters and a roof made from sections of plexiglass. Nick wondered if the room doubled as a greenhouse because it certainly felt like one when the ceiling fans weren't spinning and the AC wasn't blasting. Even yet, it was his favorite room in the entire house and was the first room he'd bothered to set up completely and use.

From the main part of the house, the studio was accessible through the foyer. There was also a screen door that opened out to the overgrown field behind the house. He really liked the studio, but it made him feel a little vulnerable being surrounded by windows on two sides, especially at night. He knew he was alone out there, but he felt like he was on display every time he entered the room, as though he were being watched. He'd installed some blinds, which had improved the feeling a bit, and though blinds were relatively cheap, it had cost him a small fortune to cover the sixteen individual windows. He couldn't imagine how the previous owner had dealt with it; he supposed eventually he'd feel the same way.

He also wondered if the previous owner had adored the studio as much as Nick did; it looked well-used at one point at least, long streaks of dried, old paint on the floor and walls; it had grown dusty as though it had fallen into disuse in the last several years though. The man had been old, nearing his nineties. Nick wasn't entirely surprised at the turn.

He'd heard that the previous owner had died penniless and alone in the house; the son, the man who had sold Nick the house, had always hated the property. Nick realized it was ugly, but wondered what other dark secrets were hidden in the walls. When Nick had shown an avid interest in purchasing the house, the son had even knocked it down several grand from the original price which had already floored Nick when he considered the immense size of the house. Structurally it looked decent, so Nick wondered what sort of ghosts lingered in the hallways and what sort of horrific memories stained the floors.

The house had even come partially furnished, the children of the owner not wanting to bother with an estate sale. Everything of value, sentimental or otherwise had been removed, which hadn't amounted to much since the house was still full. Nick didn't mind inheriting furniture since he had almost nothing of his own. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd wanted to buy such an enormous house when he didn't need the space and was unlikely to ever have children. Even if he did, there was something like eight bedrooms. He had yet to explore all of the rooms, he didn't even know what he'd find behind the doors he hadn't opened yet.

Nick figured he'd explore a bit before he went to bed. He didn't have to go into work until the next night, so he had time to sleep in a bit if he wanted to. With a goal in mind, Nick slammed the door to his truck and went inside the awkward house.

* * *

Besides the master bedroom, Nick hadn't explored much of the second floor so he decided to start there. He figured he'd work his way down the hall and then take the back stair case and work his way back towards the foyer, leaving the older part of the house for the morning. He chose to start with the room two doors down from his bedroom. When he opened the door, his eyes bulged at the sight; boxes and boxes stacked in every corner, floor to ceiling. Furniture stacked on top of furniture, helter-skelter, nearly toppling over in several places. He closed the door for a second, steeling himself for another look. He opened it again and felt just as overwhelmed. He let out a sigh and continued down the hall. Each room was equally as bad, if not worse. It was rather rude of the son to sell him such a hoarded house, but from just briefly surveying the mess, Nick picked out a few very valuable pieces of camera equipment and even what appeared to be money peeking out of yellowed books. He'd technically purchased everything in the house, if he found money, he was keeping it for the trouble of cleaning up their father's mess.

Now he knew why the previous owner had needed so much room, there was _so much stuff_. Even in the few rooms that weren't completely packed, it was a sea of white. The owner's son had covered most of the furniture with white dust clothes, probably at the time willing to accept that the house wouldn't sell very quickly; and honestly, though the rooms were generally painted dark, subdued shades, the house was more white than anything. Nick couldn't imagine how long it would take to sell off all the crap crammed inside of the second floor alone. A lot of the things were nice enough, and most of the furniture was antique and in relatively good condition, but for every nice thing there were innumerous stacks of clutter as well. Stacks of boxes filled with old papers and books and odds and ends shoved into all corners. Buried under a stack of newspapers, Nick managed to dig up a handful of sketch books stretching years and years before Nick was even born. The art wasn't necessarily very pretty, but the man had been good. It wasn't very realistic, shying more on the side of conceptual and even surreal, but for that reason alone it was beautiful and Nick immediately treasured his find.

He set the sketch books in the hall and opened the last door at the end of the hall; it had taken him a lot longer than he'd expected and it was already nearing 1:00 AM; he would have to finish the downstairs in the morning. When he opened the door, he immediately concluded that it had been the man's study. Shelves of books lined the walls and a sturdy oak desk stood under an expansive window overlooking the back field. It was pleasantly less hoarded, although he wondered if the empty liquor bottles didn't outnumber the books. He found more in the drawers in the desk and shoved into filing cabinets. It wasn't the first time he'd found evidence of alcohol abuse in the house, but never in this quantity. He'd found several in the master bedroom and in the kitchen, all in various states of consumption. It was really quite depressing. Nick wondered what the man had been like in life, if he'd deserved the loneliness he'd felt that could only be filled with the burn of alcohol.

Nick sighed and flicked off the lights once more and went to bed, all the while wondering about a man who had already passed on.

* * *

He spent the next morning digging through boxes of junk, trying hard not to let his thoughts linger on a certain blutbad. But it was hard not to when everything reminded him of the older man. Everything he touched seemed like something Monroe would probably be interested in. Nick didn't know all of Monroe's interests, but if he brought Monroe to the house even once, he'd probably figure out a few more. It would never happen, but just the thought was sort of comforting, not as lonely as it should have made him feel. He was still lonely, sure, but pretending Monroe might one day see his house and explore its secrets with him made wandering the enormous house by himself less intimidating.

* * *

He had yet to see the attic, he had a feeling it would be even worse than the rest of the house, maybe even filled with more empty bottles of booze. Only the oldest part of the house had an attic, surprisingly. The door to the attic was located in the hall right above the staircase. It seemed like dangerous placement; if he fell off the ladder he'd go tumbling down the steps. Were these people suicidal? Nick shrugged off the thought as he pulled down the ladder rope and climbed up, instantly feeling the heat from the stuffy attic pouring down on him. Inside the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of dust from years of neglect, but he could tell by the path of disruption that it had been often frequented by someone.

It was a standard attic, exposed rafters, uncovered insulation, occasional dead moth or mouse. More surprisingly, it was relatively void of items save the few dusty boxes stacked in a far corner and a single chair perched in the center of the room below a low lying rafter. Dangling in the light of the circular attic window was the silhouette of a single hanging rope.

An instant chill coursed down Nick's spine at the sight.

He stared at the hanging rope for a long time, wondering what it would take to bring someone to that place. He'd dealt with his fair share of suicides over the years, but there was something about hanging that bothered him more than self-inflicted gunshot wounds. It was such a silent, hopeless death. At least when the gun went off, there was no more thought, no more pain, but to struggle and maybe even regret, he didn't like imagining the thought.

Unbidden, Nick found himself stepping across the room and climbing onto the chair. The brush of the rope against the skin of his forehead sent a rush of anxiety down his back to the base of his tailbone. Unfathomable to even himself, he slipped the well formed noose around his own neck and tightened it until it was flush against his throat to the point it was almost hard to breathe. He wondered how many times the old man had done the same, willing himself to kick the chair out from under him or to just jump. How many times had he come close to actually doing it.

Nick wasn't particularly afraid, but he felt nauseous the longer the stood there, thinking about it. He leaned a few times against the rope, testing it, feeling the resistance choking him. It almost felt like he was drowning, he couldn't breathe. He wrapped his hands around the length of rope above his head and leaned his full weight against it, straining against the bind until his vision started to blacken around the edges, his knees starting to tremble as the oxygen left his body. He wasn't sure what he was aiming for, but suddenly the rope snapped and sent him crashing to the floor, banging his knees against the floor. Frantically, Nick peeled the rope from his neck and breathed in the dusty air gratefully. He lay there for a along time just breathing, his head swimming with thoughts of the old man and his own test of mortality. Maybe the old man had never wanted to go this way, never intended for the rope to actually be used. Maybe it was only meant as a reminder, a comfort from a darkness he couldn't shake. Nick didn't know how the man had died, if it had been suicide. Nick wondered if the son had even known about his father's depression or if he would have even cared. It was a harsh thought about someone he didn't know, but even a cruel man didn't deserve to die like that, all alone in this big house gasping for his very last breaths and regretting the life he'd lived.

It sickened Nick to the pit of his stomach and left him feeling hollow inside.

* * *

Nick carried the rope downstairs and outside and burned it, stamping out the flames when it was just a black length of ash. He didn't want death to linger over his house, he had enough of that in his everyday life. He hoped in part the old man would find peace in the gesture, some peace in death.

Nick spent the rest of the morning cleaning and going through boxes of crap that wasn't even his. He was pretty peeved that he'd managed somehow to purchase a lifetime of accumulated things in a month's time; it would take several more months just to sort through and toss what was garbage. Some of it was easy, like the bottles or even boxes of what was essentially trash, but at times it was tough. Interspersed between layers of candy wrappers and old magazines were family photos and even legal documents. It seemed wrong to throw them out, yet he knew the old man's children had no interest. He felt a weird obligation to this man he'd never met before to protect memories that weren't even his. _What the hell? _

He'd probably end up burning the documents if the son didn't want them and then save the pictures in a shoebox or something. Someone would want them someday, perhaps. Or he could even put them in the wall or something, give them back to the house. Nick had always been a little superstitious about ghosts and whatnot, perhaps it's why he so easily accepted his heritage when honestly anyone else would have checked themselves into a mental institution.

He was almost finished with the front sitting room when his phone rang. Looking down at the number, he found he didn't recognize it. His heart leapt into his throat when Monroe's face flashed through his mind. Who else could it be? Maybe it'd been a mix-up and he'd lost his phone or something.

"Nick Burkhardt," Nick answered, willing himself not to sound too excitable.

There was a pause before a woman's voice said, "Congratulations on the new house."

"How did you get this number?" Nick growled, immediately recognizing his mother's voice. "And how did you know about my house?"

The other end was quiet. "Nicky, I know you're still upset with me, but when you have children, you'll understand why I did what I did."

_I'll never have children. You must realize that by now. Or will I have to for the sake of some bloodline I never asked to be part of?_

Nick didn't hate being a Grimm, he just didn't care for the price tag so much.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," Nick asserted quite bluntly, not afraid of hurting her feelings.

"Nicky-"

"Don't call me that." _You're not my mother anymore. At least not the one who used to call me that. _

"Nick. We need to talk eventually. There are a lot of things you need to know."

"I realize that. But now's not a good time."

"Then when?" He didn't appreciate the tone of frustration in her voice. Didn't she realize how much she was hurting him? Or didn't she care? Or was their bloodline far more important than he was?

"I'll contact you when I want to talk."

"When will that be?"

"When I'm ready."

Nick didn't say anything more and didn't wait for her reply before he hung up. He didn't know if he could contact her by that unknown number, but he figured she would make it nearly impossible for him to ignore her forever. If she could find him as easily as she had, he doubted it would be any trouble for her. Likely he'd hear from her again regardless if he wanted to talk or not.

Nick threw himself down onto the settee and lay there for awhile just staring at the ceiling. It frustrated and angered him that he would eventually forgive her. He didn't have to, but he would because that was the sort of person he was. Nick knew how to hold grudges, how to distrust people, but she was his mother. He already felt guilty ignoring her…

Where was Monroe when he needed him? Juliette? Someone to take his side and tell him it was okay to be hurt and angry? _God, _he wondered even though he wasn't particularly religious, _why me?_

* * *

When his phone rang later that night after work, he was irritable thinking it was his mother again, but it was Lydia instead. He hadn't truly spoken to her since she'd called to tell him that the strange couple - Karen and Eric - had purchased the house and that it was okay for him to start moving his stuff out. He'd tried calling her the other day, but she'd been busy and couldn't talk. Nick was eager to know how Juliette was doing.

She was healthy, apparently, and in good mental standing. She hadn't had an 'attack' for two weeks. Nick was quite pleased to hear she was doing so well.

"I forgot to tell you," Nick said when the conversation lulled. "Do you remember that couple that bought the house? They bought one of my paintings."

"Oh, that's fantastic, Nick," Lydia said, sounding genuinely happy for him. She'd heard from Juliette awhile ago that Nick liked to draw; he'd only recently told her about his paintings.

"Yeah, I finally cashed it the other day. I was thinking I could send you a check to help take care of Juliette or something." Nick worried when the line fell completely silent. "Lydia?" he asked, a hint of concern tingeing his voice.

"Nick…" Lydia said with a cheerless sigh, her voice hard-pressed. "I know you love Juliette, but it's not your problem anymore. I know you don't want to hear this, but… you really need to move on. Live your life. That's your money, you earned it."

"I know, but I feel somehow responsible…" He _was _responsible.

"But you're not," Lydia replied in a firm tone. "She's _my _sister. Yes, it's difficult, but more so because it's hard to just see her this way, but we have it covered. You need to stop sending money. Spend it on something for yourself. Take a trip, go somewhere. Clear your head."

Nick didn't know what to say; he _was _responsible for what had happened to Juliette, not that he could readily admit to it without being seen as insane as well. He couldn't help Juliette in person, couldn't even get near her, sending money was the only way he could try to right some of the injustice.

Nick opened and closed his mouth several times like a gasping animal, trying to find words.

"Juliette's met someone," Lydia said suddenly. "He's a very nice man, a veterinarian… She's happy."

_Oh…_

"I don't think you should call here anymore. I don't dislike you Nick, you're like a brother to me so don't feel like I'm rejecting you, but it's honestly not healthy for you to hear about Juliette all of the time, I can tell. It's only hurting you and she wouldn't want you to live this way, broken up over her. She would hate for you to suffer because of her."

Nick couldn't find words for what he was feeling, didn't even know where to start. He wanted to yell, cry. How could she say all of this so easily? Act like his relationship with Juliette had meant nothing to him when she'd been his best friend, his lover, the woman he'd wanted to marry more than anything. How did Lydia expect him to move on like it had never happened? He could never even fucking see her again, why was she saying all of this now?

But it wasn't Lydia's fault. She was trying to do what was best for everyone, including him. She was as nice as Juliette and wouldn't do things intentionally to hurt anyone. He'd sounded desperate every time he'd called their house wondering and worrying over Juliette and how she was fairing. Hearing about her never quite made things feel better though…

"Nick?" she asked when he'd been quiet for too long.

"No, you're right. I do need to move on."

"Do you have someone you can talk to if you need to?"

"Huh, what? Oh, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"Okay… I'll pray for you. Take care of yourself, Nick. I mean it."

"Thanks, you too, Lydia."

Lydia didn't answer, just hung up the phone. Nick let out a heavy sigh before he headed upstairs to his bedroom and curled up under the covers. He didn't cry, just lay there in numb silence, not entirely sure what to feel. He certainly felt lonely and depressed, but partially relieved as well. It was nice to know that Juliette had found someone, even though it felt like salt in the wound a bit knowing he was the abandoned one instead.

* * *

When Nick woke the next morning, he knew he had to get rid of the money Karen had given him. He felt wrong keeping it even though technically it was his since he'd painted the picture, but he still didn't feel it was worth a grand. Deciding to send the money to Juliette had made him feel better about it, less guilty, but now he was stumped again. After spending some time thinking about it, Nick figured out exactly what he needed to do with the money. He had an hour or so before work out, so he showered and headed into Portland a little early and stopped by the animal shelter he and Juliette used to volunteer at two years ago.

The last time he'd visited was about a year ago when he and Juliette had contemplated getting a dog. They would have too, except Juliette's hours had unexpectedly increased and they decided it wasn't fair for the dog to be stuck at home for so long by itself. Somehow the whole idea was pushed to the backburner and quickly forgotten. Nick liked animals as much as the next person, but with his work schedule, it wasn't a good idea. Even now it wasn't ideal. During a normal work day he could be gone much longer than he was scheduled for and now without Juliette to remind him to go home, he could see himself spending _days _in the field trying to track down wesen suspects. He was just going to have to get used to an empty house.

Just inside the entrance to the shelter was a cork board filled with colorful slips, each one cut into the shape of a paw print bearing the name of a donor. Nick approached the front desk to where a teenaged girl was standing; her face lit up in a bright grin when she saw him.

"Hi, I was wondering if I could make a donation?" Nick asked while returning the smile.

"Oh, that would be fantastic. Every donation, no matter how small, is a giant help," she replied with practiced ease.

"Great. I would also like to make it in honor of someone, if possible."

"Sure, just fill out the name of the person on your paw print," she said as she grabbed him a paper and a black permanent marker. "How much would you like to donate today?" she asked as she pulled out a thick file folder of paperwork.

"Oh, um," Nick murmured as he rifled through his pockets, eventually fishing out the small slip of paper. "Here's the check. Do I just make it out to the shelter…?" He looked up and saw her shell-shocked face as she eyed the check amount. "Are you okay?"

"O-oh, I'm sorry! I just… am I reading that correctly?"

"Yeah," Nick chuckled. "It doesn't have an accidental extra zero, it's supposed to be $1000."

"Oh, oh wow. You must love animals." She shifted her weight and curled a finger into her hair. "Can you hold on for a minute?"

"Oh, sure…" Did he do something wrong, he wondered as she darted into the back room. A moment later she returned with the manager, an older woman he recognized from past visits.

"Hi," she greeted as she reached out to shake his hand. "I'm Mary, the manager. Kendra told me about your generosity and I just wanted to thank you personally. We've been struggling so much in the last few years because of the economy. This will be a huge help for the animals."

Nick felt entirely embarrassed and undeserving of such praise. Honestly he wouldn't be there making a donation if he hadn't been given such an obscene amount of cash and Lydia hadn't refused him. He wasn't as thoughtful or generous as they painted him to be. If he loved animals as much as they claimed, he'd be there every weekend volunteering and taking the dogs for walks and playing with the cats or something.

"Well, my girlfriend… former girlfriend, she was a vet. Animals are sort of her thing."

"I'm sorry, did she pass…?"

"Oh, no, she… was recently diagnosed with schizophrenia. She's no longer able to work as a vet, but I know she'd want to keep helping animals, regardless."

"I'm so sorry to hear that…" the woman sighed, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. She genuinely sounded like she meant it which made the back of Nick's throat burn and his eyes start to water so he just smiled and bent his head to fill out the slip of paper and hand it back to the girl.

Nick watched with a lifted heart as the paper bearing the words, _'In honor of Juliette Silverton' _was pinned to the board. Under her name he'd drawn a blooming rose and _'I'll always love you.' _

It was his final goodbye to her and the life they'd shared for those three, short years. He wished her the best as he kissed her forehead in his mind, letting her go like a spry little songbird.

* * *

Later that night, after work, Nick lay on his bed contemplating his own feelings. He wasn't sad. He wasn't necessarily happy, but the thought of Juliette wasn't quite so devastating. And he felt hungry, ravenous and for once eager to have dinner, even alone. Maybe he'd have to do something similar to get over Monroe. Donate money to the local toy train club or something. Clock Workers Anonymous… Nick laughed out loud at the thought of Monroe all dressed up and sitting in a circle of chairs avidly discussing stamps in entire seriousness. With a fond smile on his face, Nick imagined Monroe embroiled in an argument over something Nick would find absolutely ridiculous, jargon flying back and forth over his head.

Oh god, he missed Monroe. He found his body pillow and wound his arms around it, thinking of the handsome, intelligent blutbad. He felt his appetite waver and subside and wondered if he slept for a while, if it would come back. Hoping for the best, he let himself drift off into uneasy darkness.

* * *

It wasn't much later when his phone began to ring loudly in his ear. He groaned as he glanced at the Caller ID. It was Karen. Again. It was the fourth time she'd called him since he'd given her his number weeks ago. The first time he'd answered because he didn't recognize the number, the second time in case it was indeed an emergency - which it hadn't been; he'd ignored her the third time. She really only called to flirt with him and vaguely propose indecent things she wanted to do to him. He liked to pretend he didn't understand her when she said those sorts of things; he could tell it flustered her as she tried to find different words to get her point across without out right saying it.

He wasn't entirely sure why he answered when he didn't particularly want to talk to her. Maybe he was _that _lonely.

"Hi, Karen."

"Oh, Nick, I'm so glad you answered," she said, a little breathless. _Yeah, I bet. _"Now, this isn't just a pleasure call, I actually have to tell you something."

"Alright," Nick answered with genuine surprise. "What's going on?"

"Well, you remember that friend of mine?"

_No, why would I remember something like that?_

"Um, which one?"

"My gallery friend? Well, you'll never believe it! One of her artists canceled on her at the last minute and when I showed her that painting you did, she was _so _impressed!"

"And…"

"And she wants you in her show this weekend!"

"_This _weekend?" It was Tuesday, but it was still rather sudden…

"Yes! Isn't that amazing! I don't know all the details just yet, but I gave her your number and she said she was going to be calling you soon. I just wanted to make sure you had your phone on you, wouldn't want you to miss such an important call…" She giggled girlishly at the end of her sentence. Nick rolled his eyes, glad she couldn't see him.

"When did you say she was going to call…?" Nick asked nicely, looking for an excuse to hang up the phone.

"Oh, I suppose I should let you go then… but we'll talk later, okay?" It really was a question. Nick just answered with a noncommittal, 'Sure,' and hung up the phone.

Indeed, a half-hour later his phone rang again. Within ten minutes, Nick was scheduled to debut in his first ever gallery showing. He wasn't necessarily looking for fame or to even have his art shown to anyone, but the woman was so friendly and desperate sounding that Nick couldn't help but agree and figured he might as well be thankful for the opportunity as inconvenient and unwanted as it might be. It wasn't a huge show, all local artists, but all professionals with years of experience at their disposal. It was rather intimidating and quite humbling to think the woman deemed him worthy enough to even patch _a hole _in the wall, let alone show a painting in her gallery.

Due to the sheer number of artists represented, each one was only allowed a few pieces to enter, which turned out to be a good thing in Nick's case since he only had a few paintings himself. The woman, he couldn't remember her name quite… Sheila? Sharon? Something… she definitely wanted to display the painting he'd sold, along with four others. If he had more to choose from, he would debate which ones were even good enough, as it was, he only had four other ones so it wasn't much of decision. It felt sort of wrong to display the pictures of Monroe and Juliette he'd painted without their permission, but they were probably his better works and it was doubtful anyone would recognize them even for a second. And it wasn't like either of them would ever know about it. Juliette was all the way down in California and Monroe wasn't talking to him anymore. He'd showcase them for a night and then they would hide under sheets in some backroom never to be seen by anyone else but himself again. They were quite unmemorable pieces anyway. Not even very good. They were good by his skills, which were lacking, but definitely no Degas.

The only other paintings he had were the abstract one he'd done regarding his feelings for his mother and another one he'd labeled 'The Field.' The first one was done in those angry, harsh shades of yellow scraped across the canvas, swallowing the whole frame. Set off to the bottom right hand corner was a rectangular blob of red and black, the way he felt under his mother's gaze. Small, insignificant, lonely. The piece was just called 'Mother.' He supposed one could say the painting was cheerful, how often would one associate ill feelings with the color yellow, but it also felt oppressive and nerve-wracking. At least to him it did. The second painting was almost entirely white; painted, not bare canvas. A mellow sage green broke the field from the sky; a few blocky purple smears littered the base of the picture. In the middle, a speck of black. A wandering, lonely soul. He was interested to see what other's had to say about his 'work' and any advice he could get, along with much welcomed criticism. He was allowed to sell his paintings and since he was unwilling to part with the other two and he'd already sold the third one, these was his only options left. He didn't have particularly strong feelings for them so he didn't mind never seeing them again; they were certainly better than his last abstract one. More aesthetically pleasing to the eye, or at least he thought so - he was no expert after all. He'd throw them up for auction; let the art fiends have at it. If they didn't sell, no big deal, he was planning on painting over them anyway.

* * *

Nick debated for a long time whether or not to tell Hank and the rest of his coworkers about the gallery opening; but in all honesty, he didn't want to go by himself, seemed a little depressing. He didn't particularly want all of his coworkers to know about his hobby, but figured Hank would be more upset if he didn't tell him. Unfortunately, Wu happened to be walking by at that exact moment as Nick was telling Hank.

"Fantastic," Wu said. "I'm thinking of painting my living room, glad to know I can count on you."

"Oh, shut up," Nick laughed.

"Wow, that's pretty big, Nick," Hank said while leaning back in his chair, a look of astonishment on his face. "Hope this doesn't mean you're going to be leaving us."

"And what? Become an 'artist?' Ha! I'd be homeless in less than a week. Even if my paintings sell, I'd only make a couple hundred bucks max. Not to mention the kickback to the gallery… I'm not going anywhere."

"Good to hear," Hank said, leaning over and patting Nick on the shoulder. "Wouldn't know what to do without my partner."

"What? Am I suddenly chopped liver?" Wu demanded as though totally offended when he wasn't. Nick jumped up without warning and grabbed Wu into a headlock, completely surprising the shorter man.

"Wouldn't dream of forgetting you. So, I can count on both of you coming?"

"I'll be there," Hank said with a nod. "Wouldn't miss my buddy's big day."

"Only if you'll let me go," Wu grunted, his face red. Nick released him with a laugh.

"Great, it starts at 8:00. I'll text the both of you the address."

Just knowing Hank and Wu would be there for him, it was the happiest he'd been in a long time. He found himself giving the two of them one-armed hugs before dashing off to invite the Captain as well.

* * *

The night of the gallery opening found Nick sorting through his dress clothes looking for the perfect outfit. He wasn't necessarily one to fret over his appearance, not so intensely, but he was having a hard time finding shirts and pants that still fit him properly. He'd honestly believed he'd been doing better at remembering to eat on a regular basis, but apparently not. When he slipped on his pants, they practically fell off of his hips. He tightened his belt several more notches and realized that if he kept it up, he'd have to buy a smaller belt or cut a few more holes into it.

Even his shirts looked baggy now. Where'd all his muscles go? They were still holding on in a few places, but he looked nothing like his formerly handsome self. Even if Juliette wasn't driven crazy by the mere sight of him, would she even recognize him at this point? Would Monroe? At this rate, it'd be impossible for him to get a new girlfriend with such a steady decline in his looks and physique.

Looking into the mirror, he brushed a hand through his short hair and sighed. He'd begun to let it grow out again and it was nearly half an inch in length already; he still looked like a ghost though. Slightly sunken in eyes, skinny face, pale skin. In part he was beginning to look more like himself since he'd been sleeping better; spending those extra few days with his work buddies moving had helped a lot as well. Even so, he couldn't deny the mounting evidence pointing towards an eating disorder (if forgetting to eat counted as one). What? Did he have to write himself a note to remember? How obnoxious. He'd just have to try harder, he supposed.

Nick finally decided on a maroon shirt and a pair of black slacks. The shirt lent some color to his cheeks while the slacks hid the weight he'd lost on his legs. He brushed some gel into his hair and finished with a spray of cologne before heading out, hoping to get through the night without too much grief.

* * *

"Hey, its-a Picasso!" Wu joked in a poor Italian accent as he swung an arm around Nick's shoulder. Nick laughed as he leaned into his friend's warmth.

"You know Picasso was Spanish, right?"

Without missing a beat, Wu replied, "Obviously. Didn't you recognize my Spanish accent?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Of course. It was very convincing."

The gallery was pretty upscale; Nick looked far underdressed for the occasion, it was almost embarrassing. Even Hank looked snazzier than he did, but Nick had a feeling he was looking for a date. At least Wu felt as uncomfortable as he did, even a little fidgety as he watched men in suits and women in evening dresses pass them by. The gallery even had servers walking around with champagne and finger foods; it was pretty high class. Nick wandered awhile, Hank at his side, and took in the other works. Other paintings, sculptures, ceramics, installations, it was something else. When they returned to Nick's small area, he was surprised by the buzz his pieces were generating. They weren't particularly stunning compared to many of the other artists' entries, he felt, but it wasn't really the art people were interested in.

It was him.

Only his coworkers knew who he was, so he could easily stand besides gossiping couples and listen in on what they were saying about his paintings. Their words absolutely floored him. Back and forth the rumors flew.

"The woman, I heard she's insane. Even tried to kill him. Poor man…"

"The man in that picture, his lover, died in a car wreck. Isn't that tragic?"

"Schizophrenic."

"He ODed on heroin, I heard."

"She hears voices."

"He left him for another man."

"She's locked up in the loony-bin."

"He killed himself."

Nick wanted to correct them, yell at them, tear down the paintings and storm out. It was one thing to rip him down, but they didn't even know Juliette or Monroe. Hank thankfully didn't say anything, but there was no way he couldn't hear what was circulating. Nick could honestly only think of one person who could possibly know enough about the situation to even start rumors like that and the next time he saw Karen, he was going to strangle her.

He didn't have to wait long before a bubbly, very blonde woman came bouncing up to him.

"Nick! It's so good to see you again," she said excitedly as she dragged a reluctant man across the hall towards them. It took Nick a moment to recognize her face as the very woman he was currently annoyed with.

"Karen. I didn't recognize you with your hair…"

She touched a hand to her head, stroking several locks between her fingers self-consciously. "What do you think? My stylist told me it would take years off of my appearance."

Honestly it made her look like she was trying too hard, especially considering her wardrobe change as well. Was she trying to dress like she was in her twenties again? He hoped it was a personal change that had nothing to do with him; he was getting pretty tired of being endlessly pursued by her. He had nothing against dating older women, but he had something against dating this one in particular. A large portion due in part to the man attached at her side. He didn't remember his name - believed foolishly at one point that he'd never have to see these people again - but he would never forget the man's robotic personality.

He glanced back at Karen to find her watching him expectantly. Right, this is where he replied with something nice.

"Why would you want to look any younger? How old did you say you were? 27?"

"Oh, you flatter me too much, dear," she giggled, stroking a hand against his cheek, lingering far too long against his jaw line and pausing briefly against his neck. "If I were 27, I certainly wouldn't be married to this old man."

Her husband didn't say anything and Nick noticed her absent wedding ring and idly wondered if she'd ever actually file for divorce. Somehow he doubted it.

"Please tell me you're not bidding on my other painting…"

"I wish we were, but…"

He didn't know why he said it, it was only giving her false hope, but he flirted by saying, "Well good, because you know I'd certainly give you a discount."

She bit her bottom lip while she grinned and fanned herself. It didn't take her long though to notice Hank standing just behind Nick and when they were formally introduced, Nick was pleased to find that she seemed incapable of preventing herself from flirting with him either. At least Nick wasn't the only one she had her eyes on. He did give Hank a warning look though; the last thing his friend needed was to get caught up in an affair with someone like Karen.

* * *

When Hank and Karen's husband wandered away for a minute, Nick shot Karen a serious look and said, "You must know why my art's catching everyone's attention."

She immediately looked meek as she laced her fingers together and bit her bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Nick. It was wrong, but I knew people would take interest if they knew _why _your art was so tragic… I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand."

Nick wanted to be mad, he really did, and he was, but she looked so ashamed and pathetic and hopeful that he'd forgive her that he couldn't help but do just that. He pulled her into his side in a half hug and squeezed her shoulder.

"It's okay. You're just doing what you can to support me. I wouldn't be here without you."

"Oh, Nick," she sighed happily, snuggling her head under his chin and stroking a hand against his chest. "You know how I feel about you."

That was his cue to move away. He smiled at her and found an excuse to dart back into the crowd. He watched her stand there, wringing her fingers with a pained look on her face. He couldn't tease her anymore, draw out her feelings like this; he didn't know what sort of life she led, but he could tell she was probably as lonely and miserable as he was. If she ever divorced her husband, he'd consider setting her up with someone nice from work. Even though she was a little on the annoying side, she was sweet in her own -albeit trying - way.

* * *

Eventually Nick was left to himself, Hank off in search of some more appetizers and Wu disappearing some time long before that. He'd bumped into the Captain briefly and a few of his other coworkers; they'd chatted, the Captain congratulating him and giving him a firm pat on the back as though he were his kid brother or something. It was nice to be loved, Nick thought. He was alone now, but not necessarily lonely.

When he decided to check to see if anyone had actually bid on his paintings, he was floored by the results. He eventually wandered back to his paintings and took those few moments of solitude to examine them. He stood there for a long time, silent, studious, but no matter how long he stared at them, he still didn't understand the allure. What did they see that he didn't? The current bid for his painting, 'Mother' had amounted to $3100. The other, $2600. He couldn't believe it. He had a feeling it was the rumors fueling the fire of urgency, making him a trendy item. He didn't expect anyone to want the paintings, that's why he'd put them up for auction in the first place. Why were the current bids so high? It was absolutely ridiculous.

Nick was so engrossed in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice a figure moving towards him in the edge of his peripherals. Nick turned his head slightly and examined the person, a man, for a short second before turning away. It was hard not to stare though; he was absolutely stunning, so much so that Nick felt anxious when the other man calmly stopped next to Nick to stare at the painting with interest.

Nick stood there in tense silence as he studied the man out of the corner of his eye, praying he wouldn't notice. With every stroke of his corneas, he was finding himself growing more and more attracted to this handsome stranger, just for his looks alone. Nick would be screwed if the guy had a great personality to match. The man's face was pleasant with high cheekbones and full lips; curls of golden brown hair framed dark eyes. He was several inches taller than Nick, taller than even Monroe surprisingly, and quite muscular with a well developed masculinity about his face and jaw, set upon a thick neck. Honestly, he could have been about the same age as Nick, but the youngness around his eyes gave him away. Nick estimated he was somewhere in his early to mid-twenties and likely played sports of some sort, maybe even professionally; it'd be such a waste not to.

Nick nearly jumped out of his skin when the man suddenly cleared his throat and said, "I heard this is one of the paintings people have been going absolutely bat-shit insane over." His voice was deep and melodic that practically dripped honey. Nick felt a stirring in his belly at the sound; under the words, Nick could detect something about him that instantly screamed, 'gay.' It made the feeling of attraction all that more intense.

"God," the man continued, actually huffing, "what's wrong with people? Do I just not get it? It's so ugly."

Nick found himself exhaling with relief, pleased not to have to hear any more praise for his work.

"I know, right?" Nick said with a laugh. "Can you believe someone would pay over three grand for that?"

"Really, is that what the bid's at? Unbelievable…"

"Yeah, I just heard. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"People are idiots. I mean, the pictures of the man and the woman aren't so bad, they're actually nice. But the other ones? Why couldn't this Nick Burkhardt or whatever," he said as he read the name plate, "just stick to still life or something? Abstraction is so… just not my thing."

"Even the people aren't very good…" Nick criticized, eager to have a real conversation about his work with someone. He was disappointed when the man said:

"No, they're actually pretty good. Well, the forms a little… unrealistic, almost surreal. But it's the expressions that make them enjoyable to look at."

"How? They're just smiling. Pretty standard for a nontraditional portrait."

The man turned and stared at Nick for the first time, his brow quirked and a smirk on his lips. "I'm starting to wonder if you have any depth to you at all… What are you doing here at a gallery opening anyway?" he asked, his eyes sliding up Nick's body slowly, sending a rush of blood south almost immediately to Nick's groin. Nick shifted on his feet so he could concentrate on the other man's words. "Shouldn't you be at home watching a football game or killing animals or something?"

Stepping out on a limb, Nick cracked a sly grin and said, "What? Are you saying I have a nice body?" The other man's eyes instantly widened, not having expected Nick's candid remark. Nick's stomach churned anxiously, wondering if he'd read things wrong. The other man's grin laid his fears to rest.

"And here I was, trying to take things slow. Act like a gentleman."

Nick was going to be hard in a second, he didn't have time to beat around the bush anymore. The man was obviously gay and had approached Nick, so it really meant one of two things. Nick was quite willing to fish for it. "Fine," Nick said, "I'll be the blunt one. Do you want to have sex with me?"

The man didn't hesitate. "Yes, I would like that very much. _And _I just happen to know where the handicapped bathroom is, if you catch my drift."

Nick smiled a little deviously. "Yeah, I do. But before I go anywhere with you, finish what you were saying. What is it about the expressions that I don't get?"

Nick was raring to hook up, but it was possibly his only chance to get an honest opinion from someone.

"Oh, jeeze. Explaining things to you plebeians…" the man chuckled. "They just feel very real… very intimate. Like I know them. I wonder who they are… Normally I'd assume the woman is the artist's wife or something since it's a man, but this other one…" he said, referencing the painting of Monroe. "It just feels… weird."

"Weird, how?"

"I don't know…"

"The only thing I've heard are rumors that he's my boyfriend or something…" Nick grumbled. He realized his mistake the moment it slipped past his lips.

"I heard those… Wait… you're not.. the artist, _are you_?" At Nick's reluctant look, the man groaned, "Ah, shit! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult your work, I had no idea."

"No, no, really, it's okay. It's nice to hear a genuine opinion for once. I keep hearing how great my abstracted paintings are when they really are just garbage."

"They're not garbage. I just don't get them. I'm an idiot. Totally uncultured. Honestly, they're really very nice."

"You said they were ugly not just a minute ago…" Nick reminded him.

"Did I? Okay, alright, I said they were ugly. But they're not really ugly, just… different… I'm used to still lifes and portraits, okay? Picasso before he ventured off into cubism."

"Really, it's okay. I don't usually paint like this, but it sort of just happened and Karen, that woman over there," he said as he pointed her out across the room flirting with some guy in a suit, "she really got the ball rolling. She bought one of my paintings and then introduced me to the gallery owner. I'm actually embarrassed to have my paintings on display like this, as though they're great works of art."

"Really, they're not that bad."

"You know, I liked you a lot better when you were telling me how ugly they were."

"So…" the man trailed off slowly. "If I tell you they're the ugliest things I've ever laid my eyes upon, will you still let me fuck you?"

"No, if you say that, I'll just be offended," Nick grumbled before crossing his arms. The man looked rather disappointed and about to slink off in dejection when Nick quickly said with a bright smile, "I'm only kidding. Say what you want, I don't care, I'll still going to sleep with you. You're good looking and I haven't had sex in over a month."

The man's eyes lit up. "Great. The bathroom's on the second floor, towards the end of the red wing. Meet you there? I don't know if you brought condoms, but I have some."

Nick's face flushed. "Yeah, I have some too." And he did; he'd brought some just in case a chance to use them arose. God, it made him sound like a slut.

Apparently the other man didn't think so as he grinned at Nick and left. Nick waited for a few minutes, looking around for any familiar faces watching him, before he followed several yards behind to the back of the building and up the stairs.

The tile was cold and hard against his bare knees, he thought, but it was really only a minor complaint.

* * *

Nick returned downstairs about twenty minutes later and found Hank standing by himself examining someone else's paintings.

"Hey, where'd you head off to?" Hank asked when Nick approached him.

"Oh, just had to take care of a few things…" At Hank's doubtful look and raised brow, Nick growled, "I had to go to the bathroom, alright? Do I need to ask permission to take a dump, Captain?"

Hank laughed and slapped Nick on the back. "When the Captain retires, you just might. I'm joking, I'm joking."

Nick shot Hank a dirty look. Just then a woman's voice said, "Nick?" Nick turned and was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar fuchsbau face staring back at him.

"Rosalee!" Immediately the elation he'd felt from seeing her face escaped as he wondered nervously why she was there and if Monroe was wandering around somewhere as well. Regardless and without letting her know how he truly felt upon seeing her, he exclaimed rather genuinely, "It's so good to see you. You look great."

And she did. Her hair was done up, curls of hair framing her lovely face. He realized subconsciously that she had a great body, but he'd never seen her in something so form fitting as the little black cocktail dress she was donning. Even yet, she looked elegant and refined. A real beauty. In her hands she held a large bouquet of roses. Nick felt his stomach churn, ashamed of the jealousy he felt towards her.

"I know! It's been weeks, hasn't it?" she said. Without warning, she hugged him tightly and Nick sort of melted into her embrace almost immediately. It'd been awhile since anyone had genuinely hugged him; he wondered idly if she had been the last one. She didn't feel quite the same as Juliette, but her womanly form was quite welcome in his persistent loneliness. But she belonged to Monroe, so he pulled away rather abruptly when too long a moment had passed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," she said, her usual smile gracing her lips, "I saw a flier at Powell's for a gallery opening and just happened to see your name listed as one of the artists. I was surprised, I had no idea you painted. They're just fabulous."

Nick felt his stomach wrench at her words. It was unlikely she'd missed that picture of Monroe then; that disgusting picture. Would she know just by looking at it somehow that Nick loved him? Or would she just think it nice? Then again, why would a man paint a picture of a another man in such a manner without some sort of deeper meaning to it? But she had no idea of when he'd painted it, so he could have done it back when they were friends. Maybe he could lie and tell her he was painting one of her too. No, that was way too creepy. Why would he do that? Would anyone want to hear that anyway? Even Hank, who he'd been friends with since he was 19 years old would probably be uncomfortable if Nick painted a portrait of him without being asked to.

No, he had no excuses. He'd been mortified when Hank and Wu and his other coworkers who knew of Monroe had seen it. Those who didn't know Nick had become friends with Monroe were very confused as to why Nick had painted a picture of a suspected kidnapper.

"Nick?"

"Huh?" Nick asked, looking up from the ground to Rosalee's worried eyes. Nick glanced around quickly, confused. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She smiled, the corners of her mouth creasing uncomfortably and her eyes still sad. Nick smiled back, just as uneasily, unsure of what she knew.

"So, Rosalee, how are you?"

"Oh." She sounded surprised at his question though it was only common courtesy. "I'm fine. Same old, same old. Business has been picking up at the shop a bit."

"Oh, well that's good to hear." _And Monroe? _

But maybe she knew, because she asked instead, "What about you, Nick? I haven't heard from you in awhile."

"Oh, I'm good. Been busy. Not much to say, really. Been painting, obviously."

Nick noticed Hank then and was glad for the distraction.

"Oh, sorry. Hank, this is Rosalee. Rosalee, Hank."

"Pleasure to meet you," Rosalee said as she shook his hand. Her eyes darted to Nick's briefly, a look of hesitance. Nick just raised his eyebrows.

"Believe me, the pleasure's all mine," Hank replied in the smooth voice he reserved for sweet-talking the ladies. Apparently he didn't recognize her; Nick was relieved. Rosalee just blushed a pleasant shade of pink at his words; Nick rolled his eyes.

"Here," Rosalee said, handing him the large bouquet. "From Monroe."

"Wow, didn't expect to get flowers," Nick said with an uneasy laugh, wondering if they were really for him. _I highly doubt Monroe would ever buy _me _flowers… Oh, shit! _That pretty much confirmed that Monroe was wandering around somewhere, but where?

"Is he… here somewhere?"

"Yes. We split up to find you… he must have gone in the opposite direction… I'm surprised he hasn't found you yet, we've been here for almost an hour already."

"I'm sure he's educating someone on something."

Rosalee laughed. "That's probably true."

"Well, I don't want to keep you stuck here. I've already made my rounds."

"Okay, I'll go find Monroe and bring him back, alright?"

"Great. I'll be here." And unfortunately he would be. No doubt Monroe was avoiding him, but if Rosalee was blissfully unaware and clamped to his arm, he would have no choice but to face Nick. Nick couldn't really bring up that night or apologize in front of Rosalee who knew nothing, but maybe he could make some sort of amends.

* * *

When Rosalee walked away, Hank opened his mouth to say something, but let out a low whistle instead.

"Careful, Hank. Rosalee is Monroe's girlfriend."

Hank sighed heavily. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that… Seriously? Now I dislike him even more… How does a guy like _Monroe _get a foxy gal like that? She's something else…"A moment of silence passed before Hank said, "Is it just me, or does she looks sort of familiar too…"

Nick just chuckled and didn't answer. Better if Hank didn't remember entirely.

* * *

As expected, Monroe never showed up. Nick saw Rosalee pass by several times looking for him, but chose to hide instead of facing her. She didn't have Monroe and he couldn't stand the thought of hearing her explain why her boyfriend couldn't be bothered to look him in the eyes or stand to even breathe the same air. Eventually Nick left. Hank and everyone else he knew had already gone home and he was almost positive that Karen was lingering somewhere, waiting to catch him alone.

As he was heading down the front steps, he ran into the man from earlier.

"Heading home?"

"Yeah, I'm beat."

The man caught Nick's wrist and tugged him flush against his chest; he leaned down, his face close to Nick's.

"Want to come home with me tonight?"

"Yes," Nick breathed against the taller man's lips without hesitation. "I was hoping you'd ask."

TBC

* * *

A/N: No promises are better than broken ones, I guess. I will continue to try to get chapters out at a reasonable pace. Once school is over, maybe it will be better?

And woot! New season of Grimm next Monday! So excited!

Anyway, please review and let me know what your thoughts!


	8. ABSOLUTION IV: RESIGNATION

A/N: I'm sorry, I have to bump this fic up to an M rating; I no longer feel comfortable keeping this at just a T rating. It seems I am incapable of not talking like a dirty old sailor. Really, that's the biggest problem it seems. This chapter isn't so bad, but the next few chapters push the boundary way too much. I'm keeping the rating at T for this chapter, but when I post chapter 9, I will be changing the rating as well. This is mostly a forewarning so it's not suddenly just 'missing.' It's just listed differently (and though everyone is probably way smarter than me when it comes to this website and finding things, I thought I'd just throw it out there for safe measure). I also don't want to alienate anyone. If you are comfortable with the content thus far, it won't get too much more graphic…? (always debatable), it's just the language and the sexual themes will continue to get heavier. It won't be crazy explicit though as expected of many M rated fics; it'll be nothing worse than chapter 2. I hope you will continue to put your trust in me as we venture through the last few chapters together.

Other news, I have also changed the summary and one of the categories. Is this more H/C than Angst? I'm not an expert on anything, really. Not sure if the summary summarizes things better either. The last one was a little too vague, too downtrodden (potentially). Hopefully this one reflects the nature of the story better. Thoughts? And is this Whump? All these things I'm learning lately… heard 'Curtain fic' for the first time ever the other day. Had to look it up, which prompted me to learn about Whump. I feel so uninformed, lol. If there are other things that you feel fit this in terms of genre/warnings, etc, please, _please, _let me know.

I re-read through all the chapters predating this one and I'm embarrassed by all of the mistakes! Jeeze. I've reposted chapters 2 through 6 thus far in order to fix any (and hopefully all) mistakes. Nothing is really different except the occasional spelling/grammatical error or words left in sentences as it was being revised.

Thank you to everyone who has ventured this far with me and has offered their thoughts and critiques/comments. Each one is greatly appreciated and helps with the writing process. I continue to look forward to hearing your opinions and suggestions at anything I can improve upon.

* * *

CHAPTER 8: Absolution IV - Resignation

_Days earlier…_

Monroe was just about to head out to do his weekly grocery shopping when there was a heavy knock at his door. Though he knew the likelihood was slim to none, he never stopped hoping it was Nick on the other side. He didn't know how to find Nick now, aside from actually seeking out Hank (which was slowly becoming more appealing), so he continued to rely on Nick's persistent personality and hope the younger man just showed up unannounced one day.

When Monroe did open the door, he was taken aback by the nearly hysterical Jacquie on the other side. She looked dressed and ready for work, but her hair was in absolute disarray as though she'd been running her hands through it nonstop.

"Oh, my god, Monroe! I'm so glad you're home," she practically cried, tears actually welling up in the corners of her eyes with just the sight of him.

"What's wrong, what happened?" Monroe found himself asking almost as frantically. He wouldn't necessarily consider her a close friend, hell, even 'friend' was a bit of a stretch, but he found himself growing fond of her in a neighborly sort of way.

"Tony was supposed to pick up the girls -" _her ex_ "- but now he's not coming and I'm already 15 minutes late for my shift and it's not a huge issue for me to drop of Carmen and Celia at practice, but I have no one to watch Mariana until I can find a sitter…"

Monroe wanted to say no, should say no for so many reasons, but he was sort of weak willed when people really needed him. He found himself saying, "My bug's a little small for five people…"

"I know, so I'll lend you the Explorer," she quickly replied as she held up her jingling keys, 'World's Best Mom' catching his eye as it glinted silver in the sunlight.

* * *

Minutes later found Monroe driving Jacquie to work with the three girls tucked away in the back. The two older girls bickered almost the entire way, their mom playing peacekeeper up front. The youngest, Mariana, hummed to herself as she played with her Barbie doll, her eyes occasionally meeting Monroe's in the rearview mirror. It was strange; Monroe wondered if this is what it felt like to be married and have children. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, he realized with surprise.

He dropped Jacquie off at the front doors of the hospital; just as he was wishing her a nice day at work, she leaned over and gave him a tight hug and a light peck on the cheek. He flushed in embarrassment when she pulled away.

"Thank you again, Monroe. I'd be totally screwed without you. I _promise _I'll get a sitter as soon as possible. I'll give you a call, alright?"

She started to close the door when she remembered, "Oh, what's your number - Actually, I'll just call Carmen, okay? Carmen," she called to her oldest daughter, "keep your phone on, okay? Be good girls!" She turned to him and smiled. "Thanks, again."

When the door slammed, Monroe let out a (relatively) quiet sigh before he shifted back into drive and started heading in the opposite direction to get the girls to soccer practice as quickly as possible.

* * *

Monroe sat on the bleachers with the rest of the parents who lingered - there weren't very many of them - and watched the two oldest run through their drills. As he sat there, he couldn't help but wonder how he'd ended up playing babysitter that morning. He was a blutbad, for crying out loud. Not a nursemaid. It was _such _a bad idea to leave a blutbad alone with three, defenseless young girls, not that Jacquie knew who he really was, but still… Who left their children alone with a strange old man who could totally kidnap and rape or murder them or something?

Oh, that's right, he was supposed to be gay, wasn't he? He wasn't supposed to be a predator of little girls, not that he had any sort of disgusting interest like that, but it was still way too much trust for Jacquie to put in him when they hadn't shared more than a few sentences in the past few years. Sure, they'd had dinner the other night after she'd invited him over to repay him for the food he'd given to her as an apology (did she understand one didn't have repay that sort of thing?), but he never expected it to go anywhere. Didn't expect her to entrust him with the care of her three children. _Jeeze, _he thought, _it's like watching Marie all over again. _What was it about him that made people want to trust him so much anyway?

Despite his reluctance for the new found position of babysitter, he had every good intention of keeping his eye on Mariana and making sure she didn't get into trouble; he really didn't expect her to stay near him or even _like _him. He expected her to play in the grass or pick dandelions or to even run around, not sit and stare up at him with those big, curious brown eyes of hers. Honestly he'd hoped she _would _stay as far away from him as possible since her mother decided to dress her in a red, ladybug sundress that day…

"You're big," she stated quite bluntly as she looked at him, her eyes squinting in the glaring sun.

"Yup," Monroe replied, not sure what else to say.

"You must be _really _strong."

"Yes, I am."

"Do you have a wife?"

"No."

"My mom and dad _used _to be married, but now they're divorced," she said, her voice a little exaggerated as though she were explaining something less interesting to him. Monroe felt his blood-pressure beginning to rise; he really didn't have it in him to console some child he didn't know over their parents' divorce. What could he honestly say?

"I'm sorry your dad couldn't come to pick you up today," Monroe offered in a gentle voice, "not to mention getting stuck with me. Something probably came up at work…"

"Yeah, probably," she said with cool resignation; Monroe had a feeling this sort of situation wasn't unfamiliar to her, even yet, it wasn't something she should have to experience so often. Looking at her, knowing some jackass out there would rather get back at his ex-wife over something stupid than act like a man, it pissed him off. The neighbors hadn't been exaggerating in the least the guy's shortcomings as a husband, a father, or a plain gentleman. The guy was a dick.

"Let's play a game," Mariana suddenly said, startling Monroe from his cold hatred of a person he'd never met; when he glanced down at her, she stared at him with round eyes, a hopeful smile stretched across her face. Like Nick, it was a face he found he couldn't say no to.

The game really wasn't much of one, he supposed, more like just playing since there weren't rules or objectives. Mariana would latch onto his wrist and Monroe would periodically lift her off of the ground by raising his arm. It really wasn't much effort for him to lift her, even at such an odd angle, but she screamed with delight every time her feet left the ground. Just to tease her, he let her hang there for a while, her feet dangling a few inches off of the ground until she was giggling so hard her grip began to slip. His strength seemed to amaze, not terrify, her.

Eventually Monroe and Mariana did pass the time with games like tic-tac-toe in the sand or I Spy and he even quizzed her on her addition and subtraction skills with pieces of bark dust. She seemed to really like him, and though he hadn't gotten to know the other two very well, he thought she was the cutest of the three and his favorites if only because she didn't seem as demanding or self-centered. She was a very sweet little girl.

When he thought about it, he honestly couldn't imagine how anyone could harm or eat a cute little girl like her, even if she _was _wearing red.

* * *

When practice finally finished a few hours later, two tired girls slumped over to where Monroe sat with Mariana. Monroe was glad they had both taken a shower in the locker rooms because that was the one thing about kids he could never stand: they always smelled bad.

"Well, your mom gave me some money for lunch," Monroe said as they were loading up into the Explorer. "Where do you girls want to go?"

He was honestly surprised by how quickly the other girls warmed up to him and how easily he forgot his fear of suddenly losing himself and gobbling the three of them up. Even Carmen, who had looked at him initially with such loathing was shooting him smiles that lit up her entire face as though he were her favorite uncle who had doted on her since birth. Sitting there with the three of them, enjoying a vegan meal - they'd all wanted to try it after he'd mentioned it - it was the calmest, happiest he'd been in months. He wished Nick could meet them since the young detective had an apparent weakness for children; he knew the younger man would adore them as much as Monroe was beginning to.

Monroe was actually disappointed and a little sad when they pulled into Jacquie's driveway knowing he was done playing 'Uncle Monroe' for the day. Jacquie hadn't managed to find a sitter, but it didn't matter since Carmen was old enough to watch her two sisters anyway. Monroe bid them farewell and returned to his own home, but not before receiving two tackling hugs from Celia and Mariana.

* * *

When Monroe returned home later that day from grocery shopping, he decided to finish up the ramp he'd been working on for Olive. She still didn't get out very much, but he'd seen her a few more times outside since he'd started going over every day or so to check on her and see if she needed anything or just make sure she was still breathing. He'd also continued to help her set up her grandson Benjamin's new bedroom, which ended up involving a lot of furniture moving. It seemed rather pointless since the boy would probably end up moving things wherever he wanted anyway, but there was no use arguing with her when she set her mind to something.

He'd constructed a rather decent looking ramp a few days before after painstakingly measuring each and every step on her front porch (they'd turned out to be a little off on the right side). He even tacked down traction so she wouldn't slip. All he had left to do was screw it into place. He was quite proud of himself when he took a step back and examined it.

At that very moment, Olive came out of her house to examine his work as well.

"Have you met my grandson before?" she asked unexpectedly. Monroe hesitated.

"Um, no…" _Haven't we already established this? _"I'll be meeting him tomorrow, right?"

She scratched her chin before she asked in genuine surprise, "Then how did you know he was in a wheelchair?"

Monroe immediately felt guilty for every mean thought he'd ever had towards the kid when he was moving boxes down to the basement or cleaning the floor or doing whatnot. No wonder Olive put him in a downstairs bedroom instead of one of the numerous upstairs ones even when that meant she had to sleep on the living room sofa until the back office could be converted into a bedroom.

"I had no idea… I actually built this for you, but I guess that was good timing."

"Oh, well aren't you just sweet? Benjamin will absolutely adore you." It was sort of an awkward statement; how old was this person anyway? Olive seemed a little old to be taking care of a child as her sentence invited him to believe.

* * *

Monroe didn't know what to expect when he woke up bright an early the next morning knowing Olive's grandson would be arriving in a few hours. As he drank his morning coffee, did his usual Pilates and took a run through the park, he couldn't help but wonder what sort of person Benjamin would turn out to be.

* * *

About 3:00 PM, a rather normal looking car pulled up in front of Olive's house; Monroe didn't think much of it until a man and a woman a bit older than himself got out and went around to the back and helped a young man into a wheelchair. He looked about college aged, possibly even half of Monroe's age, and rather handsome. Monroe assumed the two people were his parents and watched as they loaded a few boxes into their arms and headed up the walk to Olive's house. Monroe took that as his cue to go over and introduce himself. They were nice enough and seemed pleased to have someone help them carry boxes into the house. The mother looked a little frayed around the edges, no doubt worried over her son. Monroe wondered if he was an only child or the youngest.

As for Benjamin, he was even better looking up close; Monroe felt ashamed noticing it considering their age difference, but he couldn't stop the thought from flickering through his mind. Benjamin was quite small and rather slender, but not unpleasantly so. He had a decently masculine face, but it was almost more beautiful than it was handsome. His head was covered in fine, short pale blonde hair like his mother, a pink streak highlighting his lengthy bangs. Though he smiled at Monroe upon initial meeting, Monroe could tell he wasn't the least bit interested in getting to know him or talking to him again. It irritated the blutbad, especially after all the hard work he'd put into making the house suitable for him.

Monroe brushed it off and carried the last of the boxes into the kid's bedroom, made small talk with the parents before excusing himself and returning to his own house. It was still too early to start dinner, so he decided to pull out his cello and play for awhile instead, choosing to work on his latest piece, _Nick no. 6._

* * *

His dreams were becoming heavy once more; it'd been awhile since he'd dreamt of Nick so cold and dead, buried in the ground. Now in his dreams, Nick held Mariana to his chest, her little body torn into bloody red bits. Monroe's hands trembled as he stared down at them, his vision swimming. He couldn't believe he would do something like that; even in his dream, he couldn't believe he'd been the one to kill them. When he stared down at his hands, for once they were clean, free of blood. He couldn't taste them on his lips either. Behind him, lurking the woods was the coarse growl of a monster, a monster that wasn't him.

For the first time that he could remember, he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid of the wolf or of himself.

Instead, he was enraged. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the monster who had killed these people - his pack mates - with his own two hands. See the beast rot in the ground instead.

When he woke, covered in fur, his teeth bared as he growled at the ceiling, he knew he'd do whatever was within his power to protect these people. The ones who were becoming increasingly important to him. His friends. His pack.

* * *

Somehow Monroe had become quite popular, he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. Jacquie was constantly trying to get him over to her house for dinner claiming the girls missed him and she wanted to make up for having him drive them to soccer practice every day that week; Olive was constantly doing the same thing, though Monroe doubted Benjamin wanted him around. Every time someone knocked on his door, he wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Part of him missed those lonely days of past, at least he longed for the solitude. He'd been getting behind on his latest commission from the constant social visits. He thought Nick had been bad shoving himself into Monroe's business all of the time; at least Nick knew when to leave well enough alone. Well, only some of the time. The kid had been a little dumb at times, which surprisingly had only worked to endear him even more to Monroe.

Today was no exception when Monroe heard the familiar knock at his front door. When he swung it open though, he was surprised to see Rosalee standing on his doorstep instead. It'd been weeks since he'd seen her last. He wanted to ask how she managed to find his house, but decided against it. Fuchsbaue were devious like that and tended to trade information. That or she called Nick. One of the two, which also meant she was privy to certain information.

Under her arm she held a bag at her side. She crossed her arms when she saw him and shot him an irritated look.

"What?" Monroe asked slowly, not entirely sure what he was walking into.

"Did you change your phone number?"

"What? No…" Monroe answered, curious why she would ask that. He didn't remember her calling; he even stopped leaving the ringer off, hoping for an angry text or call from Nick.

Rosalee breathed in deeply through her nose, not at all pleased with Monroe's reply. "Then why is it that every time I try to call you," she bit, "I'm told it's not in service?"

Monroe frowned deeply and tilted his head in confusion. What the hell did she mean by that..?

Suddenly realization hit him as he thought back to the last time he remembered paying his phone bill. His stomach dropped down through the floor.

"Oh, _shit_!" he gasped and stumbled back from the door to frantically snag his phone off of the kitchen counter. No bars. No antenna. How long had his phone been cut off? He was always so good at remembering things like that, but somehow he'd let it fall between the cracks. He'd been pushing it, waiting until the last minute to pay his bill when that night with Nick had happened; after that, he must have just spaced it off completely. It'd been almost three months since he'd last paid his phone bill…

"I never really get phone calls," Monroe explained hastily to Rosalee who had followed him into the house. "Even my commissions tend to be handled through email… I thought it seemed unusually silent… _Shit! _I can't imagine what my bill is going to be with all the late fees…!"

Rosalee's irritation faded into friendly empathy. "Sorry, I was short with you. I thought maybe you were avoiding me too."

"No, no, never," Monroe sputtered, though he'd been doing just that since he hadn't made an effort to visit her either. Thankfully she didn't mention it. But that didn't stop her from asking him the exact question he didn't want to answer.

"Have you talked to Nick?"

He had a feeling she already knew the answer to that. At her look of resignation, he felt even more guilty.

He couldn't think of a polite way to ask, so he just said it instead of answering, "Why are you here?"

She pulled out a pair of scissor from her bag. "Thought you could probably use a trim; you're starting to look a little too much like a bush man. And honestly, I can't really see you with long, flowing locks."

Monroe actually smiled at that; he realized how much he'd missed seeing her and hearing her voice in that moment. How she made him smile so easily. He had nothing derisive to reply with, so he held his tongue.

Even though his house was mostly back to looking normal again, the damage was still noticeable and Rosalee couldn't help but let her eyes skim the remainder of his temporary insanity.

"You weren't joking when you said you were having control issues…" she said slowly.

"It's… a work in progress," he said in embarrassment. Recently he hadn't had much time to work on the interior while trying to help Jacquie with her kids and Olive around the house. "But it's given me something to do other than break stuff and run like a wild man through the forest."

"That's… good," she said with a nod. "So you're still not talking to Nick? _At all_?"

Monroe sighed and smoothed a hand over his face. "I haven't quite… worked up the nerve to call him just yet, not that I could have even if I'd tried," he grumbled. "Has he still been coming around the shop?"

"No, not since that last time. I think he has other informants." Monroe wasn't surprised about that. "And I heard he moved."

"Yeah, he did."

"You actually went by his house?"

"You don't have to sound so impressed, I'm not a complete ass. I even bought him flowers and made him dinner, but some god-awful lady and a creepy guy lived there instead. Did he say why he was moving when you talked to him last?"

"No, he didn't even mention it. I actually heard from a friend. Since Nick is the only Grimm I know who lives in the area, I just assumed it was him. My friend said he shipped out of town. I think he still works at the police department though."

Monroe ran his hands through his hair several times, running his nails against his scalp in the way he did when he was anxious. He had a sneaking suspicion he'd made a lot of things worse by not apologizing to Nick sooner when he'd had a chance to. He wondered how Nick was, what he was doing. If he was happy. He was also disappointed that he would have to go straight to Hank for the address since Rosalee apparently didn't have it.

"How about that haircut?" Rosalee offered with a tentative smile when Monroe had sunk too deeply into his own melancholy thoughts. Monroe nodded his head and led her to the downstairs bathroom.

* * *

"I didn't know you cut hair," Monroe said as Rosalee snipped at his overgrown mess.

"When I was younger, I was willing to do just about anything to keep from working at my parents' shop. Beauty school was about the only thing I could afford with my slim paycheck. I never particularly liked it, but I was alright at it. I'm not really good with the small talk part though."

"Who is?" Monroe said with an embarrassed laugh, realizing how bad he was at it himself. Nick seemed like the only person he'd never had a hard time connecting with. Almost an instant connection…

God, he missed Nick.

* * *

"Look, frankly I think it's better for you _not _to look like a caveman, but I'll be upfront and tell you that I have ulterior motives for being here."

"What do you mean..?" Monroe asked slowly, the sensation of being cornered settling onto his shoulders.

"I want you to go take a shower and get dressed in your best. And before you think it's a date, it's not. We're going to go see Nick."

At Monroe's wide-eyed look, she said, "He's having some of his paintings shown at a gallery tonight." When Monroe's face grew even more dumbfounded, she added, "I was as surprised as you, I didn't know he painted, but I asked around and it really is our Nick."

"I don't know, I don't want to ruin his big night…"

"Aren't you the least bit curious? And besides, even if you don't talk to him, you should at least support him by going and showing an interest in his art."

"That's… true." He couldn't argue with that. And maybe if he could get Nick alone…

* * *

While Monroe showered upstairs, Rosalee changed in the downstairs bathroom. He was surprised by the transformation. God, she really was beautiful. He'd always known, but she seemed even more unattainable, even more distant from him.

Why'd he have to fall for the two most unattainable people possible? They were so beyond him in looks and personality, it was actually more hilarious than it was depressing.

"Ready to go?" she asked as she finished putting in her earrings.

"Y-yeah," Monroe practically stuttered as he ushered her towards the door.

"I'm driving," she said before he could ask. "That way you can't escape."

Monroe wasn't sure he liked that reasoning, but he couldn't argue with her thought process.

* * *

"Hey, can you turn down this street?" Monroe asked as a sudden thought occurred to him as they passed through very familiar streets.

"This one here?" she asked as she threw on her blinker. "Why?"

"Uh, it's his big day, maybe we should get him flowers or something."

Rosalee smiled. "Okay."

Rosalee didn't go in with him, which Monroe was fine with.

"You're back," the clerk said when she saw him. "How'd it go? The other night?"

"Um, it didn't. Go anywhere, that is," Monroe replied, actually quite surprised she remembered him. "He wasn't home. But I'm trying again."

"Another dozen yellow roses?" she asked as she held her finger poised over the cash register buttons.

Monroe hesitated. "Make it red."

"Wow, you're making a statement tonight. You're looking even snazzier too. I'm sure he won't be able to resist you."

"Let's hope that's the case," Monroe murmured with a nervous smile as he pulled out his wallet.

* * *

After some convincing, Rosalee agreed separating was the best way to cover the most ground and find Nick the quickest, though Monroe honestly wanted to confront Nick alone. Rosalee was a great support and a good motivator, but Nick might not appreciate Rosalee knowing as much as she did.

It didn't take Monroe very long to locate Nick. Just as Monroe was passing through the watercolor section, he caught sight of the younger man. He considered calling out to him, getting it over with, when he noticed the young detective tailing someone rather intently through the throng of people. Monroe didn't immediately recognize the young man to be a wesen, and he didn't smell particularly like one either, but Monroe wasn't positive so he followed several yards behind Nick just in case the Grimm ran into some sort of trouble. He haunted their steps to the back stairwell and up to the second floor and watched as the strange man entered a lone restroom, Nick following a few seconds after.

_Oh…_ Monroe thought with dawning realization and a bit of shock. He never would have pegged Nick as one of _those _kinds of people.

He wasn't sure what drove him to it, perhaps hope it wasn't true, but he waited just across the hall until the strange man once more emerged from the bathroom. The man glanced around quickly, adjusted his jacket, before strolling away. A few minutes later, Nick also emerged. He looked a little less put together, a little disheveled, but he wore the biggest grin Monroe had seen him sporting in months. It was… a little nice, though it made Monroe jealous. When Nick passed the alcove Monroe was hiding in, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Nick had just had sex. Embarrassingly, it immediately made Monroe hard. It made him want to pull Nick back into the restroom and make love to him; he couldn't, but it didn't make his thoughts retract any quicker. It appeared as though he'd be stuck in that alcove for awhile, at least until he calmed down.

* * *

When he was feeling more in control of himself - and more accepting of the situation, perhaps a tad depressed - Monroe wandered back to where he'd originally seen Nick, curious to see the Grimm's paintings. So far everything he'd seen in the gallery was really nice, he couldn't imagine what Nick had painted. He knew the guy could draw, he'd seen some of his drawings before, but he didn't know this side of him. The further down the hall he went, the thicker and livelier the crowd became; the place wasn't packed, but one of the artists was creating quite the buzz. Monroe loved art, he would never deny that and he certainly had his favorites, but he wasn't entirely familiar with modern or local artists, so he was certainly out of the loop. He didn't know who or what people were talking about, but he wasn't there for anyone but Nick.

He knew the moment he'd found the younger man's paintings when he saw Juliette's beautiful smile looking down at him. He let out a hard sigh, feeling Nick's pain almost immediately; no one could deny Nick's love for her. He stared at it for awhile, astounded by the lifelike quality of her expression and the light behind her eyes. It felt like Juliette staring back at him, in the flesh. He moved onto the next, an abstract one. It was beautiful in a different way. It bore a 'NFS' sign just under it, like the Juliette one. The next two paintings were for sale; the starting bids at $50. He wondered what the current bids were at because he wouldn't mind having one of Nick's paintings in his house. Even though he'd never considered himself much of an abstract sort of guy, he thought they were absolutely gorgeous.

It was the next piece that seemed to be generating the buzz he'd noticed earlier. Monroe wasn't sure if it was another one of Nick's; it was hard to see through the crowd of people. Perhaps it was another abstract painting, or another of Juliette…

When he managed to push his way through the crowd as politely as possible, his jaw dropped, a chill running down his spine as he stared into his own reflection. He blinked several times, unsure if he was seeing things correctly.

There was no doubt in his mind that it was him. Even the painting was labeled with his name, so bluntly: 'Monroe.' There was a certain looseness to the strokes separating it from total realism, but the gravity of the emotions captured on the face far exceeded anything he'd ever seen before. Even professionally.

_What is this…? _he wondered. The life and emotion he'd seen behind Juliette's eyes held nothing to this one; it left him dizzy with confusion.

What he saw reflected there didn't impart any sort of anger or hatred or fear, but… _affection_? If there'd been one beautiful, wonderful thing about Monroe, Nick had found it and captured it on that stretch of canvas in soft browns and greens and red. A certain amount of care and love had been put into each stroke of the brush to capture a moment when Monroe had been unaware of Nick's lingering gaze. He could tell by the part in his hair, how it matched what Monroe saw in the mirror every morning, that Nick had probably caught sight of his reflection in the same way. No doubt a moment when Nick had probably said something clever or cute; a moment when Monroe's own feelings had burst free to spill across his face in a secret smile he'd tried to hide from Nick but had failed regardless. Nick had seen it, memorized it, and birthed it into permanence for all to know.

He couldn't help wondering as he stared at the painting: did Nick love him? Love him the same way Monroe loved him? It was a hard thought to argue against when he thought of Nick sitting and painting such a thing. If the younger man hated him, wouldn't he have burned the painting or defaced it by now? He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch the picture, longing to know Nick's true feelings.

As his fingers were about to touch the uneven surface of the canvas, he was stopped by a voice saying, "Hey, you can't touch that!"

Startled, Monroe spun on his heels expecting to see a security guard. Instead, it was a much shorter man. He stared up at him with wide eyes and muttered quite out of the blue, "Whoa, I thought you had leukemia."

"Excuse me?" Monroe asked, astounded and extremely confused. He didn't know this person; why would he say something like that? He realized he shouldn't touch the paintings, but what could his health have to do with anything? And how did one tell someone had leukemia by staring at their back?

"I thought it was coke," the man's companion said.

"No, I'm pretty sure I heard it was some sort of cancer…" the first one replied.

They were talking like he wasn't even there. _What _were they talking about?

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what either of you are talking about. You must have me confused with somebody else…"

"No, you're the man in the painting, aren't you? 'Monroe?' An ex-lover, right?"

"Okay, whoa, whoa, some pretty crazy rumors have been spreading around, it seems like. That is me, but I don't know where you've been hearing all these other things…?"

Ex-lover? Is that what Nick had called them? For once, he was pleased to hear that assumption from others since it possibly came straight from the source. He assured the two that he was indeed alive and healthy, but found he didn't have an adequate response for his relationship status with Nick. He could only think of, 'It's complicated.'

After he said it, he hoped it didn't make the rumors any worse.

* * *

After he left the area, not entirely wanting anyone else to suddenly recognize him, he wandered, hoping to see Nick again. Eventually he found him walking with Hank.

He wasn't real crazy about confronting Nick in front of Hank since he wasn't sure what response he'd get from either of them, but he was running out of viable options. He figured he'd ask Nick to a late night cup of coffee so they could talk, set boundaries, somehow get their friendship back, perhaps even more if that was a potential possibility…? The worst that could happen was Nick rejecting him outright in front of Hank, making him look like a fool, but Nick was a reasonable person, he'd hear him out at least. Part of him wished he would have held onto the roses to use as a peace offering, but then he wouldn't be able to deny his intentions any longer, especially not in front of Hank. On second thought, it was probably a good idea he'd handed them off to Rosalee, despite her annoyance.

Monroe had just gathered together his nerves and was about to walk over when he froze in place as that obnoxious lady who lived in Nick's house ran up to Nick and gushed all over him, dragging that horribly creepy man with her. Apparently they did know each other, if not a little too well. At least Nick's reluctance at her touch gave Monroe some comfort.

Monroe watched the four of them chat for awhile, the woman shooting a rather salacious look at Hank as well, before Monroe noticed a set of eyes watching him.

That dark blond man he'd never wanted to see again had caught sight of him; Monroe watched in horror as the man dislodged himself from the group and bee-lined for him. Monroe couldn't look away, couldn't pretend he hadn't seen him, hadn't recognized him, because their eyes were locked and the only thing Monroe could do was move in the opposite direction as fast as possible. Monroe was several rooms away when he glanced behind him again.

He was still there, just as intent as before!

Monroe sped up and ended up taking the back staircase again, the one he'd used earlier to follow Nick. He briefly considered entering the restroom, but he knew the man was perhaps desperate enough to wait as long as it took for him to come out again. Monroe ducked through side rooms, through doors and behind installations, down the main stairwell and ended up outside, hiding behind one of the stone balusters out front. What was this man's problem?

When Monroe peered around the edge, he caught sight of the man standing outside looking for him, an actual look of disappointment crossing his features, the most emotion Monroe had ever seen on the man's face. He was genuinely surprised. After a moment, the man turned and went inside of the gallery again, leaving him alone finally. Monroe let out a long sigh, feeling as though he could breathe again. It seemed like he'd have to wait outside until Nick left to actually talk to him. If he even _thought _to reenter the building, he'd no doubt be cornered by that man again, so he might as well get comfortable.

* * *

Almost two hours later, Monroe perked up at Nick's scent suddenly permeating the air. When he jumped to his feet to peek around the stone baluster, he was utterly disappointed by the sight of the young man Nick had slept with earlier entangled with the person he really wanted to see, their faces pressed close together and a look of intimacy passing between their eyes. Who was this jackass, he wondered. Nick's new beau or a meaningless hook-up? He found himself again trailing several yards behind them in shadows as the two wandered together down a darker side street. He watched with painful resignation as Nick followed the man to a rather nice looking car, the two of them getting into the backseat. Monroe knew what that meant. He felt like a pervert, some sort of sick voyeur, as he watched the two of them kiss for a long time.

He walked away when Nick's shirt came off, his only consolation the thought of the roses still clutched in Nick's hands when he entered the car. Perhaps Nick was thinking of him instead. It was farfetched, but it helped stave off the despair threatening to descend upon him.

* * *

He didn't know where Rosalee was or if she had left already, but he was feeling too low to meet her eyes at the moment and decided to suffer the brunt of her anger later and walk home. He didn't want to tell her about what he'd seen, and he certainly didn't want to talk about his 'feelings.' God, he felt like shit. He didn't even know what his 'feelings' were, if he was more upset or worried. He felt rejected, sure, and depressed that Nick had moved on. Nick could certainly do whatever he wanted, he was an adult after all, but if it was anything like the night he'd come over to Monroe's house, the younger man wasn't thinking clearly. He wasn't in a good, stable place to be hooking up with random strangers. Monroe was pretty certain the guy was human, but it didn't stop other ridiculous thoughts from filtering in. Even good looking guys could be creeps underneath. He just hoped Nick knew what he was doing…

* * *

For the first time in almost two months, Monroe entered his bedroom and sat down on the torn up mattress, really forcing himself to exist in the room. He'd been in there to collect clothing and clean up the dresser, but little else. He didn't like sleeping in there because of the memories and the guilt. Even now it smelled of Nick. Though it was late, and he was tired, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep; his thoughts were too focused on the younger man and he couldn't help the jealousy he felt towards that good looking stranger Nick had left with.

And he was confused, not really sure what was real anymore. What he'd done to Nick all those weeks ago, was it rape, or had Nick seen it differently? Did Nick actually love him? Was there still a chance if he fought for it? The younger man hadn't thrown the roses Monroe had bought for him away, though given to him vicariously through Rosalee. Or maybe he thought they were from her…

Monroe sighed and collapsed onto his back. As he lay there, something caught his eye across the room, peeking out from under the bare bed frame. He rolled onto his belly and wiggled over to snag the green lump of material from the shadows. He unfolded it in his hands and realized it was Nick's shirt. When he put it to his face and inhaled it smelled of sweat and alcohol, sour, but Nick's lingering scent underneath was sweet. Monroe crawled back to the mattress to lay down once more, the shirt clutched in his hands. He'd have to return the shirt to Nick eventually, an excuse to see if they could still mend their bruised relationship.

Monroe eventually succumbed to dark slumber, but it wasn't without price. It was another fitful night filled with nightmares, but the monster in the woods this time bore a different face and the blood on Monroe's hands belonged to that strange young man from before. When Monroe awoke the next morning, he didn't feel the least bit guilty for his fancies of murder.

* * *

A/N: I _promise_ I'm not intentionally dragging this out. Four more chapters to go.

I realized something the other day. One cannot update once a week when one waits almost a week to start working on the new chapter. One should fix this poor habit immediately, lol. I should have posted this last week, but time just gets away from me too quickly.

And I made a HUGE mistake in this chapter. Damn it... If you noticed it, awesome, if you didn't, even better, lol. I'm not going to fix it immediately (it'll take several hours to rewrite this chapter, that might be an exaggeration...) but I WILL fix it eventually. Honestly, if you didn't notice the mistake, don't think about it too much (please don't think about it!) And after it's fixed, it's not necessary to reread this chapter. Nothing much will be different and it changes nothing about the following chapters or the previous ones. It's just a huge editing error. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

And whoo-hoo to the new season of Grimm! 'Bout crapped myself with joy when my theory came to fruition in episode two; that second episode was INTENSE!


	9. ABSOLUTION V: SWEET ILLUSION

A/N: Thank you for all of the reviews/favs/and watches. : ) I'm sorry to make everyone wait, I just went through a period of time where I really didn't feel very motivated to write at all. I might be bouncing back… New Grimm episode tonight! Yay.

I decided to keep this story at T for one more chapter at least; chapter 10 may also be at a T rating... possibly. Unknown at this moment. Chapter 11 will definitely be M rated though along with chapter 12. Let me know if the swearing is too much for T.

Please ignore any weird "3/4" that appear; it's an odd formatting thing that happens when I go from my word processor to this website. I think I caught them all but...

* * *

ABSOLUTION V: Sweet Illusion

Nick lay on the bed for a long time just staring at his companion. His one night stand with the handsome stranger had turned into a week long affair and after two, they were still together. The man's name was Deon; he was twenty-three years old and worked at a bottling plant. He was ridiculously tall and loved sports, was pretty phenomenal at them actually. Unfortunately his aspiration to play basketball had been short-lived after he'd been stripped of his scholarship for fighting with his fellow teammates, even though it'd only been self-defense. From how Deon described his high school years, Nick didn't envy him. Even though Deon was tall and a little on the intimidating side, it didn't stop the harassment he'd experienced by his classmates for his sexuality. It was despicable to think someone as talented as Deon could have his future snatched away so easily while the kids who instigated the fight got a full ride instead. Was there no justice in the world? Nick wondered. But he supposed if Deon was off playing college basketball, he wouldn't be in the bed next to him at that moment. A small consolation.

Nick stroked a few fingers through the man's hair lovingly before he leaned over to kiss the younger man on the nose. A sudden jolt of pain stopped him short. Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, Nick gripped the tender flesh of his side as he rolled onto his back. When the pain subsided a moment later, Nick dragged himself to his feet to creep across the floor to the master bath, careful of waking the other.

Under the spray of scalding hot water, Nick examined the bruise forming just under his ribs from where the younger man had football-tackled him to the bed the night before. It'd been an accident, more or less, though it still made Nick a little irritable. He was too old for that kind of crap (he wasn't a freaking tackling dummy), though thinking something along those lines certainly made him feel a lot older than he actually was.

Deon had been quite apologetic afterwards, claimed he'd only meant to be playful. Nick liked things a little on the rough side, _but goddamn_. He had too much physical confrontations in his day to day life as both a detective and a Grimm; he didn't need more while he was trying to get laid.

Ah, but Deon was young. Only a kid, practically. Maybe Nick needed to lighten up; he'd been that age once, not even that long ago and he could remember the aggressive coupling of bodies, the almost violent urgency. Nick had plenty of time to temper Deon's harsh edges while teaching the younger man how to love him. Until then he'd ride it out and tend to the purpling flesh on his own, do his best to hide the grimace of pain from Deon so as not to foster his guilt, because honestly Deon was almost too sweet and might dote on him too much out of remorse.

On review, perhaps he'd pout a bit, maybe he'd get breakfast in bed out of it.

* * *

Nick discovered quite a few things about the younger man in those first few weeks. First of all, Deon knew beans about art. When Nick sat down with Deon to look through a few art books he'd checked out from the library, the lack of articulate responses from the younger man confused Nick until Deon confessed almost humorously that he used the knowledge he'd gained from an art appreciation class to pick up guys at museums and galleries. It didn't really bother Nick all that much, there were plenty of things Nick wasn't confessing to and he supposed it was a classier way to hook-up.

Secondly, Deon wasn't _entirely _wealthy. The fancy car he'd used to drive Nick around town on the first few nights actually belonged to his sister, along with the fancy upscale apartment. He'd been house sitting for his sister while she was out of town, but now with her back, the small apartment he shared with three other guys wasn't ideal for privacy so they spent most of their time at Nick's. Deon hadn't technically moved in, but he spent so much time at the house he might as well. Nick was considering whether or not to ask him, seemed a bit rushed since they'd only been together for two weeks.

He was also considering whether or not he wanted to actually have something romantic with the other man; at the moment they weren't truly dating, more or less fuck-buddies, but sex without meaning was becoming just as lonely. He didn't love Deon, but it made Nick happy to have someone to come home to. The time they'd spent together, those two weeks, had been absolute bliss. Deon brought flowers home for Nick almost everyday - Nick thought it a little much since he wasn't a woman to be courted, but appreciated the attention nonetheless. He did feel a little guilty though that he didn't mind throwing out the flowers after they withered while the flowers 'from Monroe' were drying in his studio. The younger man was so sweet and charming and sexy as hell, not to mention an absolute god in bed. He was so _perfect_; if only Nick could forget Monroe and move on…

* * *

Almost as though to demonstrate how useful he was to have around, Deon helped Nick repair the broken windows and damaged siding from those troublesome teenagers. For all the damage done to the house, Nick was honestly surprised more things hadn't gone missing, or if they had, he hadn't noticed. It was impossible to tell anyway. Not a person alive could to tell how much stuff had once been contained within those walls. Deon and Nick spent many a weekend clearing out clutter and making trip after trip to the Goodwill and Salvation Army. Nick was on a first name basis with the staff by the third weekend.

Throughout the whole process, Deon didn't voice one complaint. He was also quite skilled when it came to power tools and fixing things, far better than Nick ever was.

_Might just be a keeper_, Nick mused with a smile as he watched Deon from the porch, watched how his muscles rippled under the sun as he lifted some excess lumber. Nick loosened the top two buttons of his shirt as he approached Deon with a glass of lemonade, a flirtatious smirk against his lips and an ache deep in his belly vying for some special attention.

"Want a break?" Nick asked as he neared.

Deon's eyes licked up Nick's body. He chucked the lumber to the side as he took the offered glass and kissed Nick's neck just under his ear. "How could I say no to that?"

Nick laughed as he led the younger man inside the house and upstairs to their bedroom.

* * *

Nick realized his mistake as the word was slipping past his lips. It was hardly above a whisper, but there was no mistaking those two syllables.

"_Monroe_."

Nick ground his teeth together, his eyes clenched shut, praying Deon hadn't heard him. Deon didn't comment, didn't react, didn't act as though he'd heard him at all. Nick couldn't tell if there was even a break or a stutter in his thrusting. Nick buried his face under his arms, his cheeks aflame with humiliation. He'd never done that to anyone before, calling out someone else's name. He was normally so good about it; it'd happened enough to him with past girlfriends so he knew how much it stung.

Thankfully, Nick was pretty sure Deon hadn't heard him. He didn't ask who Monroe was - it was doubtful he'd remember that painting with much clarity - and he didn't tease Nick about it either. He just kissed Nick's shoulder as they spooned and sunk into slumber.

* * *

"Who were you talking to?" Deon asked as he entered the living room, his hair dripping onto the hard wood floor as he toweled it dry.

"Huh?" Nick asked as he looked up from the book he'd been reading.

"On the phone just now?"

"Oh, Hank."

"_Again_? He knows it's after 10:00, right?" Deon complained, irritation weighing heavy on his voice. It was the first time Nick could remember the younger man reacting with such scorn for Hank.

He hadn't exactly told Deon he was a cop yet even though they'd been together for almost a month; he even lied and told Deon he was just a paper-pusher in Portland and just happened to inherit the house from his dead parents. Yeah, if they were ever going to seriously date, Nick would have to try not to lie every time Deon asked him a personal question.

"He's sort of a night owl," was Nick's generic reply.

"Is he married?"

_Why does that matter? _"No… Why?"

"Why's he calling you so late at night all of the time?"

"To talk… Why's it matter? He's my friend."

"Just a friend?"

"Yes. He's practically my _brother_," Nick bit out a little harsher than he'd intended.

"Just asking, _jeeze_. Can't a guy be curious? When it'd become fucking _illegal _to ask a question?"

Nick supposed he reserved that right at least. "Sorry, I overreacted. I'm tired," Nick explained as he got up and crossed the room to wrap his arms around Deon's still damp neck. The taller man leaned down and kissed Nick deeply, his hands already slipping under the band of Nick's sweats. "Let's go to bed," Nick suggested.

"Yeah, that's what I like to hear," the younger man said as he leaned hard into Nick, his arms firmly wound around Nick's back, almost painfully tight.

* * *

"Whoa, you know how many calories are in that, right?" Deon asked the next morning as he entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot.

Nick looked up from the newspaper he was reading and let himself enjoy the sight of Deon in just his pajama pants before he chose to reply.

"The bacon or the sausage?" Nick laughed. "It's practically dripping with fat. Actually," Nick said as he held it up, several drops of grease hitting the countertop, "it is."

"Yeah, but that's gonna go straight to your ass, you realize."

A sour taste started in the back of Nick's throat at Deon's sudden critical words. It wasn't the first time he'd mentioned Nick's weight directly or indirectly. As of late, Nick was remembering to eat on a more regular basis and was beginning to fill out again, perhaps because he wasn't so conscious of his loneliness anymore. Deon teased him that he was getting fat, but Nick wasn't entirely sure the younger man was joking at times.

"If I had an ass for it to go to, it might," Nick snapped back. "What about you? You're eating the same thing," Nick complained as Deon started in on his own heaping plate.

"Yeah, but I work out more than you do. I spend all day throwing freight. You're stuck in an office all day."

Nick wanted to open his mouth and correct Deon and say that he got plenty of exercise chasing perps, but Deon didn't know that.

"Fine. I'm not hungry anyway," Nick growled as he shoved his plate away. He was hungry, but just the thought suddenly made him sick. He wasn't worried about getting fat, the very thought was ridiculous since he could eat and eat and only hope to make back what he'd lost, he just couldn't take Deon's criticism at the moment.

"I'm not trying to criticize," Deon murmured as slid in behind Nick and nuzzled his neck. "I'm just saying…"

"Sometimes saying is more than enough," Nick bit out under his breath.

Deon pulled away abruptly, making _Nick _feel like the asshole in the situation. "Whatever. Do what you want. Don't blame me when you weigh 400lbs," the younger man ground out as he shoveled several bites of egg and bacon into his mouth.

Nick didn't comment, just stood up and scraped his plate into the garbage and went to his studio, the other man not even attempting to stop him. Thinking of the perfectly fine food sitting in the garbage, it killed Nick. He was so goddamned hungry, his stomach was almost howling for food. But his pride was hurt and it beat down on his hunger, quelling it into quiet, familiar submission.

* * *

Nick jumped when his phone rang. The Caller ID showed an unfamiliar number. Heart racing, Nick answered it quickly.

"Burkhardt," Nick said, hoping against hope for a familiar deep voice.

"Hi, I'm with KGW and we would like to do an interview about your artwork, if possible."

"My… artwork?" He couldn't be hearing the woman on the line correctly.

"This _is _Nick Burkhardt, correct? You showed some paintings at the Rose Front Gallery a few weeks ago?"

"Yes, that's me. I just don't understand why I'm being interviewed. They really weren't that good, unless that's what it's about."

The woman laughed. "You're so modest! I would love to interview you. Would that be a possibility?"

Nick hesitated. She sounded so hopeful, Nick couldn't say no. He didn't particularly want to be on the news, but he thought, why the hell not? "Okay, sure. Wouldn't hurt, I guess."

They set up a time and all Nick had to do was show up at the news station on time, dressed nicely. He didn't even have to bring any art, which was fine since he didn't have any at the moment. Shirley (the gallery owner) still had his unsold paintings at the moment, which was fine with him. There wasn't really room at the house anyway.

* * *

Nick was so nervous; it was his first real televised interview. If it was for work, he'd feel a little more confident since he'd know what he was supposed to touch on and would be able to hide behind the facts. As it was, he was terrible at talking about himself. There was never really anything to say. In the end, he wrote down a few things he might mention and ended up buying a new outfit for the occasion since all of his older clothes still hung too loosely on his frame. It made him feel a little better at least.

It wasn't supposed to be a long interview and it wasn't live, so parts would probably be cut for time anyway. Maybe they'd end up cutting the whole thing; all of Nick's answers thus far in the interview about growing up and schooling were rather bland. Since his mother wasn't dead, he'd avoided answering questions about his parents altogether; he deflected the questions so successfully, he even managed to surprise himself.

"So, tell me about your artwork," the woman finally asked.

"Um, well, I guess it all started when I lost my girlfriend. It gave me something to do and kept my mind off of things, I guess. I really didn't expect people to respond to it with such enthusiasm though."

"Is this her?" the woman asked. A picture showed on the teleprompter, his painting of Juliette and he knew it was the image played over his face at the moment.

"Yes, that's her."

"She's very beautiful. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks, me too," Nick said with a morose chuckle.

They talked for a few minutes about his work, his inspiration; all pretty routine. He thought they were pretty much done with the interview when the woman posed the one question he didn't want to answer.

"So, people have been buzzing and dying to know about the man in the picture."

Nick felt his stomach drop as his painting of Monroe was being broadcast to the entire Portland Metropolitan area.

"I must say," she continued, completely oblivious to the way Nick's face paled with every consecutive sound, "when I first saw it, I was stunned. It's just so… _alive_. Almost those 'Mona Lisa' eyes." _Isn't it her smile? _"I'm just _in love_ with this painting. There must be a deeper story behind it. Everyone's talking about who the mysterious man is. Could you put our minds to rest on the matter?"

"Um…"

"Maybe even a hint?" she pried with a wide smile.

"It's… complicated." Nick laughed uncomfortably and he knew his cheeks were burning red.

"Are you blushing?" the woman asked with almost a giggle in her voice.

"Maybe," Nick replied before he could catch himself. "Like I said, it's complicated." Was he really going to admit to loving Monroe on the evening news? Maybe Monroe would see it, maybe not. He didn't know how many people actually knew who Monroe was - considering Monroe's hermit-like personality, he doubted many - and people would likely forget about the interview as soon as the next story played anyway. Apparently a dog who saved two kittens from a house fire was scheduled to appear after him; he posed little competition to _that. _

"So it's complicated. Alright. I can work with that." She turned to face the cameras. "You heard _and saw _here first on KGW," she said with that same implying grin as she reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Check out Nick's work at the Rose Front Gallery, or online at W-W-W, dot-"

Nick cursed his nerves for making him act like a lovesick child; a smile he didn't want to show, his cheeks still aflame. God, now everyone would know. Why'd he have to tell Hank about the interview? Or his other coworkers? Even if he tried to tell everyone it had been canceled, someone was bound to see it, tape it, show it to everyone.

Deon's angry face flashed through his head, a mortifying thought; Nick wanted to sink into the floor.

"_Who's Monroe?"_

Nick had slipped up earlier that week, uttering the older man's name while making love with Deon again. Again Deon didn't react, but Nick knew he'd heard. There was no mention of it after, no questions, but the interview would undo everything. Deon was working late that night; Nick just hoped the younger man wouldn't see it somehow regardless.

* * *

Deon didn't mention the news when he got home, only kissed Nick briefly before slumping onto the couch. He _did _ask how the interview went and Nick was vague with his words, but the younger man didn't demand any real answers. Just sort of tuned out Nick all together as he switched on his Xbox and proceeded to kill everything in his path. The words on Nick's tongue died under the scream of rapid gunfire and Deon's mumbled curses. He wandered away after a moment, a seed of loneliness growing in the pit of his stomach. It was ridiculous, but Deon had coddled him for so long he'd become used to copious amounts of affection.

Feeling useless, Nick bee-lined for his studio and buried his thoughts in paint.

* * *

His interview with KGW was the first of many including newspapers and even local access channels. Why was everyone so keenly interested in him? Every interview started out relatively normal, some focusing more on his life as a police officer, some on Juliette, but they all ended with the same posed question: who is Monroe? He'd schooled himself so he wasn't as liable to giving away his emotions like the first time, but it seemed his bland, uninvolved answers only invited more speculation. One interviewer even had the audacity to assert a more intimate relationship between Nick and Monroe. At that point, Nick knew he had to do something.

It came out harsher than he intended when he said, "Now, I know a lot of rumors have been floating around about my painting and who this mysterious person is, but I refuse to spend any more time on the matter. He's a close friend of mine and I would like to respect his privacy and decline any more questions in regards to his personal life or our relationship."

The interview didn't last very much longer after that. He supposed it solved a few of the unresolved questions though. At least it answered the question of whether or not Monroe was still alive.

The interviews petered off after that; people still called but when he stated quite directly that he would only be willing to participate as long as he didn't have to answer any questions about Monroe, interest by the end of the call waned. He was just being used as fodder for gossip rags anyway (though he wondered why anyone cared). A few serious local art magazines agreed to Nick's terms and were probably the more pleasant of the interviews he had. They didn't touch on the subject of his personal life much, instead, they were interested in his actual work and for once he had some honest feedback on his paintings. It was quite refreshing though it didn't make him feel any better in certain regards. He still felt rather guilty when he thought of so many great, unappreciated artists who had died penniless while he was making bank. He realized he should feel thankful, humble that people were paying attention to him, even if he was just en vogue for the moment, a trend. Some artists never felt the fame he'd gained so undeservedly.

It certainly didn't help that his relationship with Deon was suffering at the time as well. Their schedules were already hard to match together since Nick at times worked such odd hours and periodically needed to leave for no discernable reason. Nick should really just tell Deon he was a detective, but for some reason he hesitated. For some reason he just didn't want the other to know.

Nick wondered if part of the distance forming between them was out of jealousy. He wondered if Deon was jealous of the attention he was getting by the media for his art; seemed a little petty of him. Nick didn't particularly want the attention - it hampered his work as both a detective and a Grimm - but if he was Deon, someone stripped of his own chance at fame as a basketball player, he might be bitter too. Nick tried to play it down, that it wasn't a big deal, but it never seemed to make things entirely right between them.

Nick wondered if there was something else he should be seeing; some other reason. He was left at a loss.

Was it him?

* * *

"Hank, _again_?" Deon bitched a few nights later as he stomped towards the couch, his arms crossed as he came to stand in front of Nick, his nostrils flaring.

They'd never exactly agreed to a monogamous relationship, but Deon acted like he owned Nick anyway, irritable and jealous every time Nick answered a call or a text from someone who wasn't him. Nick supposed living together implied a level of seriousness to whatever they _did _have. He hesitated to call what they had a relationship, hell, Nick wasn't even sure he liked Deon all that much anymore, especially when he compared him to someone like Monroe, someone who was more thoughtful and kind.

_And useful_. Monroe was far more useful when it came to day to day life - even beyond help with his Grimm duties. Deon was great in many ways: good with his hands and fixing things, fantastic in bed, _better _than Nick at cooking, which wasn't saying much (yet Deon had nothing on Monroe). Those were pretty much all of his good points. He was actually frustratingly lazy, didn't even particularly like doing his own laundry and was a huge slob. When he wasn't working, all he did was play video games, have sex and sleep.

"He's practically my best friend," Nick replied, not really in the mood to fight again that night - they'd already fought about something similar, but Nick felt his own temper rising again.

"Well, that's pretty convenient," Deon snapped.

"I don't have a lot of friends, okay? Besides, what's it matter to you? You have plenty of friends of your own. I don't complain when you're out drinking with them."

"Yeah, but I'm not _sleeping _with them."

"This again?" Nick asked with exasperation. "Why don't you ever believe me? It shouldn't matter to you anyway, we're hardly more than fuck-buddies-"

"What an utterly _dick _thing to say," Deon scoffed as he threw up his hands. "I thought I've made it pretty clear that I'd like to have a _real _relationship with you. _You're _the one always pushing me away."

That gave Nick pause as the words sunk into his brain.

Was _he _the one making Deon act this way ¾ the other man just this insecure? Perhaps it was his own reluctance to let Monroe go that created this unnecessary tension between them. He would venture to say it was likely his own fault for the way their relationship was devolving. He was at least partially to blame.

When Nick failed to respond, stuck partially in his own mental prison, Deon ripped Nick's arm away from his side and yanked him to his feet. Nick wasn't small, yet Deon's hand could wrap entirely around the width of his wrist bones. When Nick tried to pull away, Deon's grip tightened until the point where Nick wondered briefly if he _could_ snap his wrist bones. Half of Nick expected Deon to woge, but no matter how angry Deon got, he was just a human.

"Let go," Nick demanded in a low growl, not pleased with where this fight was potentially going.

Deon's grip tightened a little more, his other hand grabbing Nick's chin to force Nick to stare directly into his face. His grip was like steel, his nails biting into Nick's skin.

"That hurts, let go."

"Sorry," Deon murmured, his grip loosening, though his fingers continued to linger at Nick's face as though remorseful. "Come to bed with me," he whined softly, kissing Nick's neck in several places, his arms wrapping around Nick. "I don't want to fight. I just need you. It's been a rough day for me… You know I love you. I love you _so much_…"

It was the first time Deon had said it and it made Nick's heart ache a little with tenderness, his brain disregarding the pain as though suddenly senile. He could smell the beer on the younger man's breath and knew Deon was pushing drunk. He was always a dick when he drank; more violent. He really shouldn't drink at all. It was too bad he worked at a place where everything was so cheap.

"Okay," Nick murmured, dragging the younger man towards the stairs, both his wrist and his chin tender with pressure.

It wasn't like it was their first dance with violence, but it was never serious, just a sudden grab at his arm here and there. It wasn't like Deon hit him or anything. For all of the bruising, it was more likely malnutrition or a deficiency in something than anything Deon actually did. Some of it was from purely having sex; Deon was a little rougher than he was used to, but Nick was always quick to acclimate. Remorse always peppered Deon's voice in the aftermath, regretful for his haste. Nick wasn't afraid of Deon, he really had no reason to be. He was volatile, sure, but he hadn't done anything so awful to warrant the end of every nice thing they'd built together. Once Nick changed his own attitude, ditched his feelings for Monroe, there'd likely be less strife between them. They'd be able to put this all behind them.

* * *

"Jesus, Nick, what happened to your face?" Hank exclaimed the next morning when Nick dropped into his chair. Nick turned to look at Hank, a nonchalant look plastered across his features as he logged into his computer.

"Oh, this?" he asked as he gestured to the bruise on his chin. "I tripped," he answered without hesitation.

"Is that a thumb print though?" Hank asked, his brows drawn together in incredulousness as he touched a tentative finger to Nick's face. Nick jerked away almost immediately, feelings of unexpected humiliation bubbling up inside of his chest. He felt almost shameful for what Deon had done.

"No," Nick replied with an uneasy laugh. "Why would I have a thumb print on my face?" He chastised himself for the faulty reply.

"I don't know," Hank said. "Why _would _you have a freaking hand print on your face? If you were a woman, I'd worry you were being abused by some jackass."

Nick laughed as though it were a joke, though why did it come out in such a nervous titter?

"Yeah, I don't think so," Nick said. "Just coincidental bruising, I guess. Who'd be grabbing me like that anyway? Last time I checked, I was single. Even still, I've never met a woman who was that strong. Or, at least not the women I would date…"

"I don't know man. I've seen some curious bruises on your arms too… Makes a man wonder…"

It irritated Nick that Hank noticed these things _now. _How come he'd never wondered so keenly before when Nick was having his ass handed to him by wesen? How come he had to start noticing when something extremely personal was going on? Nick just hoped Hank's conclusions were nowhere near the truth; he could only imagine what Hank would think of him if he knew what a man _six years Nick's junior _was doing to him on a routine basis. It was one thing if Nick was smaller, weaker, not used to physical confrontation, but that wasn't the case. He was an experienced fighter, for fuck's sake! He really had no excuses, even to himself, except love…? God, it was laughable. He didn't even love Deon, though he thought he could in the future after they'd been together longer. There was a certain level of infatuation present and he'd be devastated if Deon ceased to come home at night.

He was actually surprised Hank had noticed the bruising elsewhere. He'd honestly thought he'd been pretty good at hiding the ones on his wrists and arms with long t-shirts. He'd even prepared a pretty good excuse to explain away his face. Normally Deon never grabbed at his face like that, hurt him so intentionally where everyone could see it. He hesitated to call it abuse… It was just… immaturity. Insecurity.

For now he'd have to be more careful. Though it hurt him, he'd have to seriously consider cutting Deon loose if it started to affect his professional life. The last thing he needed was the Captain calling him in to his office to have a discussion on domestic violence and being handed pamphlets on physical and sexual abuse. He would lose face in the office completely if rumors about him got out at work…

Maybe Nick had been quiet too long, too sunken into his own thoughts, because Hank startled Nick when he asked, "Do I need to have a talk with Monroe about this?"

It took a moment for Nick to formulate thoughts. _Monroe? What the hell does he mean by that? _He didn't understand what Monroe had to do with anything. Hank couldn't possibly think Monroe would do something like that to him, or did he think that Nick would be embarrassed to have the blutbad know something like that in order to convince Nick to talk? He honestly didn't know.

"Monroe?" Nick asked slowly, testing the waters. "You sure bring him up a lot." He laughed a bit uncomfortably.

"He's the only guy I can immediately think of who could do something like that."

"Something like what? I fell down. I don't see how that's possibly his fault. I've only got my two klutzy feet to blame for that one. Did I tell you they built the ladder to the attic right above the stairs? How dumb is that?"

"So you fell going up to the attic?"

Nick hesitated, unsure of what his previous excuse was. "Yes." At Hank's look, Nick added, "Well, I did awhile back. Hurt my arm pretty badly. Probably should have called in sick but it was too embarrassing. Can you imagine what Wu would have had to say about that one? He'd never leave me alone if he knew. And you've seen the house. It's practically a death trap."

Even Nick's fake laughing, which Nick thought was pretty convincing, failed to impress Hank one bit. What was this? An interrogation? Hank was treating him more like a suspect than a partner.

"Can we talk about something else?" Nick asked, tired of trying to convince his friend everything was perfectly peachy as far as his home life was concerned.

"Just concerned about you."

"Hank, I'm almost 31. I can take care of myself and I'm not your little sister either…" the words left his mouth before he could stop himself. He chastised himself for having forgotten that Hank's younger sister had gotten tossed around by her husband for years before they'd split. It wasn't what Nick had meant exactly, but it was no wonder Hank was jumping to conclusions; semi-correct ones, but unwanted ones nonetheless.

"Well, if Monroe gets any worse, let me know."

"It's _not _Monroe." _Shit. _"It's not anyone. It's me. Just me."

"Like I said, let me know and I'll take care of it."

_And admit I'm sleeping with a man? I don't think so… Bad enough you already think Monroe's beating me for some reason; I'd rather not make things any worse than they already are. _

Just to satisfy Hank, Nick said, "Of course. You'll be the first one I'll call."

Hank seemed to accept this as he went back to looking at his own computer screen. He shuffled some papers on his desk before he turned his attention back to Nick and said:

"You know, I could help you clear out some of the junk in your house. I can always borrow my ex-wife's truck-"

"I'm not going to make you borrow your ex's pick-up truck," Nick said seriously. "Besides, I've got it covered. Deon-" The voice died in Nick's throat.

Hank raised a brow. Nick searched his scrambled brain for something to say to make things right.

"There's this local college kid I've been helping out. He's living with me at the moment."

"How'd you meet him?"

"Art aficionado, actually. Studying to be an art major." _Oh, my god_, Nick thought. _How can this get any worse? _"He's helping clean out the house in lieu of rent for the first few months."

Hank nodded his head slowly.

"Is he the one doing that to you?" he asked, nodding towards Nick's chin.

"Shit, Hank. _No_. Jesus Christ," Nick growled brusquely as he straightened a stack of papers against his desk rather loudly, his eyes trained very carefully on what he was doing. He looked forward to the day being over.

* * *

When Nick opened the front door later that night, he was hit with the heavy aroma of a home cooked meal. He knew Deon didn't like to cook when he didn't have to, so it was entirely unexpected and almost startling. He crept slowly in the direction of the kitchen, almost expecting to find a third man somewhere in the house. Suddenly the door to the kitchen swung open and Deon clad in only an apron and some oven mitts came barreling out of the kitchen with a steaming casserole dish in his hands.

"Nick!" Deon said immediately, his eyes softening after the initial surprise. He set the dish down on the table and turned to sweep Nick off of his feet and up, into his arms.

"Are you seriously cooking naked?" Nick asked in surprise.

"Thought you'd like it."

"I must say I appreciate the view, just don't burn anything off," Nick teased with a smile, his nose brushing against Deon's. "Would make the rest of the night a bit of a downer."

Deon laughed, stealing a quick kiss before he said seriously, "I'm so sorry about last night." Any residual irritation Nick had melted when he looked into those deep, brown eyes, the regretful look so plainly visible. The taller man pressed his lips ever so tenderly over Nick's bruised chin. "I'm so sorry, babe," he apologized again. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm an ass."

"It's okay," Nick murmured, reassuring Deon rather quickly, "I haven't been very good to you either. But I promise it's going to be different from now on."

Deon kissed Nick again before setting him back on his own two feet.

"Now as much as you like me this way, I'm going to go put my clothes back on. I'd rather not have third degree burns on my junk, thank you."

While Deon changed, Nick took his usual place at the table and admired the work Deon had put into the apology dinner. The setting was fancy, utilizing some of the nice china and silver they'd found buried in the house. Besides the lasagna, there was a freshly tossed salad and homemade garlic bread; all of it making Nick's mouth water.

In the center of the table stood an overflowing vase of red roses, a few petals scattered around the place setting and a card reading, _'I'm sorry. Love you, Deon_.'

Nick replaced the card on the table and exhaled sharply. His thoughts flickered to memories of similar dinners. He shook his head quickly as though to dislodge the thought; hadn't he just promised that things would be different?

A moment later, Deon reappeared looking quite handsome in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt with a tie. Nick was about to say something about 'being shown up,' but stopped when he noticed the bottle of red wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. A trickle of unease began in the pit of Nick's stomach as he watched Deon fill both of their glasses to the top. Nick pushed his discomfort to the back of his mind as Deon handed him his and held up his own for a toast.

"To us."

Nick forced a smile at the ring of fine crystal, a measure of wine sloshing free down his wrist, dribbling against the table like droplets of blood.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: I still haven't fixed the error from last chapter. At the moment, I don't have the mental capacity to fix it, but eventually it will be better. If you still haven't noticed it, fantastic! Really the only error is in the timeline. Two events have been switched on accident. I'm probably going to change chapter 7 since 8 makes more sense… But just looking at 7... I'll have to have the chapters side by side for comparison's sake and my netbook's really too small to do that. Hopefully your reading experience has not been hampered by this issue :/

Hopefully this chapter wasn't too disjointed or Nick too weird or too disappointing. Only three chapters left, if that helps..? lol


	10. ABSOLUTION VI: CANDIED HEARTS

A/N: Sorry for the long delay. My friend's getting married in December so I've been doing a lot of wedding planning with her. I'm also in charge of making all of her centerpieces and her cake toppers. Her theme is centered around video games she and her fiancé have played together, so it's pretty time consuming (they're like dioramas, sort of). Point being, this poor thing has been shoved to the side so many times. But here it is! Chapter 10. At least a third of chapter 11 is already completed since I've had a tendency of working on that chapter (and chapter 12) instead of this one, lol, which also caused part of the delay. [Everything you just read was completely useless, lol]

**Actually maybe important**: I apologize for the words that come out of Ben (one of the OC's) mouth. He's a little rough around the edges, but I hope you will love him nonetheless (I feel like I need to apologize for his behavior like he's my child, lol) He is inappropriate and offensive (it's his personality). If you are offended by something he says, please, _please _don't feel like I am targeting anyone or any group of people. It's his way of dealing with his own reality (I'm probably making a mountain out of a mole hill, which is pretty much this fic in a nutshell anyway so… and I suppose if one is easily offended by things, they wouldn't have made it this far, huh?)

This chapter also maybe contains more coarse language..? And adult themes? I don't know. This chapter doesn't seem so bad either, but it's gonna be M rated, mostly because the next two chapters will definitely be that way so… yeah. That's my reason, lol.

Anyway, apologies for inconsistencies (almost did another chapter 8 mistake - I _swear _I will fix that chapter one day!) and any other problems on top of that. Thank you to Witchy Willow for pointing out the one ¾ I missed (another mistake I need to go back and fix… eventually, lol) And thank you to everyone else who have read and/or reviewed. You all make my day :D

* * *

ABSOLUTION VI: Candied Hearts

_Weeks earlier…_

As expected, Rosalee was none too pleased with Monroe after he'd ditched her at the gallery. She let him know when she called the next day. Monroe did feel bad; she'd ended up waiting for him until the gallery was locking up and then for awhile afterwards outside. He'd thoroughly embarrassed her by making her stand there like an idiot waiting for someone who would never show up. Monroe had apologized and after a great deal of prying, he eventually told Rosalee he'd seen Nick with another man. She was still pissed, but a little more understanding. Well, until she brought up Monroe avoiding Nick from the beginning and how he'd missed his opportunity from the get go. Monroe didn't have a response to that if only because it was true.

They didn't talk much after that, Rosalee busy with the shop and Monroe embarrassed.

Since school had started again, Monroe hadn't seen much of the neighbor girls. He still ate dinner once in a while at Jacquie's house, but babysitting had become unnecessary now with Mariana in school. He was surprised how sad it actually made him to feel. He'd gotten used to seeing them more often, especially Mariana, his favorite. Babysitting Mariana on those days had been some of the more pleasant memories he'd made in the last few months. She was astonishingly bright for her age and showed genuine interest when Monroe talked to her. Most people had a tendency of tuning Monroe out when he trailed off on inane tangents about trains or any of his other hobbies or interests. Clocks were perhaps the worst. Their eyes would glaze over and eventually they would fade away from him completely, but not Mariana. She would sit at full attention, completely silent, but her eyes alert as she watched his flittering hand movements with remarkable interest. Occasionally she would ask him, 'What's that mean?' when he used particularly complex words, but she never criticized or acted bored.

When Mariana was older, if he and Jacquie still talked, he might ask her to be his apprentice. He'd been looking from time to time for someone to pass his skills off to, and he was pleased that he may have found that someone. He'd love to have a daughter like her one day if possible. Intelligent, detail oriented and sweet-natured. Blutbaden children tended to be wild and unpredictable, and the women blunt. He'd been an odd duck himself, tending to choose quiet hobbies over hunting or rough-housing when possible. He'd enjoyed them, of course, it was in his blood, but he rather liked a quiet evening at home, sipping a glass of wine while reading a book, the tinkling of smooth jazz his backdrop.

Of course he'd love someone to sit beside him on the couch, a book of their own in hand or something similar. His relationship with Rosalee was pretty dead in the water at the moment and he was too stuck on Nick to give anyone else a try…

God, he missed Nick. He wondered if Nick was happy; if he was still with that man or if it'd only been a one night sort of thing. He hoped it was the latter; dearly, _keenly _hoped. He couldn't stop thinking of the painting Nick had done of him and what it meant.

_Ex-lover,_ the rumor had been. He hoped it'd been one born straight from the source if only for the minute chance that it could be just _lover _one day.

* * *

Without Mariana to pad out his downtime and the slow commission season, he'd been spending a great deal of time over at Olive's helping her mend the upstairs bedroom like he'd promised. It'd been thoroughly sanitized and cleaned by pest removal professionals, though he could still detect a faint odor now and then. Once he laid down a fresh layer of paint though, it'd be mostly undetectable. He wasn't sure what the fate of that disgusting creature and its foul offspring had been, but if they'd met with a mortal end, he couldn't be any happier. He supposed it was his own fault as a young child for listening to his older brothers and sticking his head into the tree stump, but having to be rushed to the ER and being subject to a number of painful stitches and a rabies shot still brought back horrible memories. Even watching his mother cuff his brothers around the ears and seeing the possum on the table for dinner later that night hadn't prevented him from developing a phobia for the small, gray marsupials. As long as they stayed away from him, he could tolerate their existence. But the next time one lunged at him, it would be the last time. Babies be damned.

Thankfully after the pest removal people had come (and Monroe had marked around Olive's house during the night discreetly) the likelihood of any small mammal venturing onto her property was slim, which was good since he spent so much time there. Somehow, he wasn't sure how, he'd ended up spending more time with Ben, Olive's grandson, than Olive herself. Even though they'd gotten to know each other better, Ben still gave off the subtle aura of disinterest whenever Monroe was around. He was relatively friendly, but he had a mean streak to him that was hard to shake and never let Monroe forget the age difference between them. Normally Monroe would think he was just an age-ist little shit, but he wondered if the insults didn't run a little deeper since Ben was openly gay. Monroe wasn't interested in him anyway, but he wondered if it was Ben's way of making sure things stayed that way.

With all the extra time on his hands, it didn't take Monroe very long to finish replacing the drywall or re-plastering. Monroe was pretty much done, all that was left was painting.

He was surprised, if not a little disappointed, when Olive offered up Ben's services in helping him finish her granddaughter's bedroom. Monroe wasn't sure what the kid was good at and there certainly wasn't much he could reach from his wheelchair, Monroe failing to buy an extension to the paint roller. Monroe was quite willing to finish the task himself (listening to Ben talk for too long made his head hurt anyway and damaged his ego), but Olive seemed pretty sincere so Monroe couldn't say no to her.

Ben had a different opinion.

"I'd certainly volunteer to help," the younger man said with far more than a touch of sarcasm, "but as you can probably see, my chair isn't well _acquainted _with the stairs."

Monroe didn't let Ben say much more before he'd lifted the much smaller man onto his shoulder, the chair folded in his hand like it weighed as much as a piece of cardboard. Olive laughed when Ben struggled, an even grumpier look stretched across his normally derisive face before she returned to the kitchen. The talkative younger man had nothing to say as they marched up the steps. When they reached the upstairs landing, Ben slung across Monroe's front, bridal style, he said with an impish little grin on his face:

"Oh my. I've changed my mind about you. Carry me off to bed whenever, you giant hunk-a-meat."

"Oh, shut up," Monroe growled, resenting yet another insult armed to remind him of the gap between them and the impossibility of ever being more than just tentative friends. "You volunteered to help," he reminded gruffly.

"I said I _would _volunteer, but I didn't actually do it. Get your hearing checked, old man."

Again with the jibe at his age; Monroe wasn't _that_ old, seriously. He was only in his early forties, but he supposed that made him something like a male cougar… Not that he was interested, _ever_, but he did wonder if there was such a thing. Didn't guys normally date younger women? Did it work differently in the gay world?

It was all lost on someone like Monroe.

Monroe ignored the rest of what Ben had to say, something about the indignity of it all, as he wheeled Ben into the last bedroom and set him in a corner. A far corner as far away as possible. He didn't bother to listen to any of the other complaints the younger man made as he went to work.

* * *

"So why did you want to move to Portland anyway?" Monroe asked after listening to Ben complain for almost thirty minutes nonstop about how much better he'd had it in Astoria with all his friends and family and how he pretty much hated living there already. Portland was a pretty interesting place to live, Monroe thought, but he supposed being homebound changed things.

"I wanted to move out, so my mom sent me to live with my grandmother. I'm 25-fucking-years old. Do you know how hard it is to have a steady boyfriend when you have your mother breathing down your neck all the time? Or your grandmother? Jesus Christ!"

Monroe shouldn't laugh, he really shouldn't, but he found himself wracked with laughter regardless. The younger man really did deserve it for the way he'd been treating Monroe, but apparently laughter was exactly what Ben wanted to hear from him anyway.

"Thank god, someone understands my plight!" Ben exclaimed, throwing up his arms dramatically. "I'm going to be starting classes at PCC soon so I would've preferred living in an apartment, _but_ my mom and dad don't think I can handle it on my own - not that I plan on staying single for very long," he added offhandedly, "But still!" he said, his voice growing just as agitated as before, "I'm not a fucking invalid! I _can _do things for myself!"

"Well, I think your grandma appreciates the company," Monroe said honestly. "She seems like she gets lonely."

"I guess that's true," Ben replied, his whole mood a degree more subdued. He almost seemed sad. "But still," he argued, though not as hotly, "the whole boyfriend thing. She might have bad hearing, but still…"

Before Monroe could comment - or criticize since he thought Ben was acting like a ridiculous child when his grandmother was being so generous and really did need the company - he heard Olive calling up the stairs to them. He left Ben in the middle of the room in the midst of a sentence as he went to check on her.

She smiled up at him from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm going out to lunch with a friend. Now I expect that room to be finished by the time I get back," she teased as she waggled a finger at him. "If you're both good, I'll even stop by the bakery on my way home."

"Well, if I could get Ben to do anything…"

Monroe could hear Ben's muffled insults from the other room, but he just ignored them. The younger man could use the teasing. He bid her farewell before returning to the room, fully expecting to take the brunt of the younger man's anger. The other was unusually quiet as he watched Monroe go back to painting.

"Things would go a lot faster if you'd help me."

"Do what?" the younger man challenged.

_Good question. _Monroe didn't answer, just painted in silence.

"Hey, I'm feeling dizzy, can you help me to my room?" Ben complained not twenty minutes later. Monroe would have grumbled - he was _so _close to being finished - but the boy sounded so pitiful, he found he couldn't say no. He scooped Ben out of his chair and carried him down the stairs, the younger man's head slumped against his shoulder pathetically. After he'd laid Ben out on his bed and tucked him in, he ran back up the stairs to fetch the forgotten wheelchair.

"I'll just put this here," Monroe said as he set the folded up wheelchair against the wall next to the younger man's bed. "It was probably the paint fumes getting to you. Can I get you anything though? Water? Aspirin or something?"

"Yeah, under the sink," Ben said, nodding his head in the direction of the door that led to the adjoining bathroom, "there's a box of condoms. Can you get some?"

"W-_what_?"

Before Monroe could move away, Ben caught his wrist and held him steady; his eyes darker than their normal shade of blue, almost black with unexpected lust. Monroe was honestly taken aback; the younger man always teased him and put him off so easily. Monroe didn't think he'd ever even blatantly _flirted _with Ben. Had the younger man caught him looking anyway? Did he just know or was he taking a gamble? He was quite ballsy anyway, maybe that's just how he was.

When Monroe hesitated and failed to say anything, Ben said, "I'm not paralyzed, if that's what you think. I have M.D. I just happen to look sexier in a wheelchair than those things." He pointed to a pair of crutches Monroe had failed to notice earlier. "So if you're worried about my junk not working, don't. Sex is the least of my worries."

It embarrassed Monroe to have his thoughts so shamelessly voiced, but he supposed it was almost said on autopilot now; no doubt Ben had been dealing with prejudice - both for his sexuality and his physical disability - his whole life. Monroe would feel bad, but he didn't want to get his head bitten off.

Even so, Monroe couldn't help but tease him a little. "What makes you think I want to sleep with you."

That shut the younger man up; but only for a moment. "I won't offer again. Either you get those condoms - there's also a tube of KY next to the box - and get back here in ten seconds, or Ben's Play Place is closed for business."

Monroe actually made it to and from the bathroom _and_ managed to strip off his outer shirt and his jeans in that time; he only knew because Ben was actually counting. Out loud.

"So close. You only had half a second left," he said with a cocky little grin on his face as he guided Monroe onto the bed to lay on top of him so they could kiss for awhile.

It was nice, Monroe thought while enjoying the taste and feel of the smaller man even though he was so exasperating normally. Ben certainly wasn't Nick by any means; he imagined Nick - when not drunk or completely miserable - would be a little more sexy about his words, even romantic. But thinking that made him feel guilty almost immediately for even having sex with another man while having Nick on the brain, and vice-versa. Thinking of Nick while sleeping with someone else. There was really no happy medium. Thankfully Ben was quite skilled with his tongue and Monroe found himself sinking into Ben's warm embrace quite willingly.

* * *

"_So_," Ben said as he rolled onto his stomach, his chin perched on the palm of his hand, the other one brushing through Monroe's thick chest hair, "tell me about Nick."

It was said so nonchalantly that it threw Monroe for a moment. He lay there in silence for awhile as his brain tried to comprehend the words. When they finally registered, he shot Ben a puzzled look.

"Your ex," Ben finally clarified, not that it changed the expression on Monroe's face at all. "My grammie told me about him. You were thinking about him just now, weren't you?"

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," Monroe apologized quickly. "I was trying hard not to…" Was he that obvious?

Ben laughed. "It's fine," he said and Monroe was surprised at how genuine he sounded. "Did you love him?" he asked curiously.

Monroe was quiet for a moment as he wondered how much he could get away with saying. Women never wanted to hear about other women, especially after sex. Unless they wanted you to say they were the best you'd ever had; that was about the only exception. Especially if they knew the other women. Angelina had been like that.

"Yes," Monroe finally admitted. "I loved him a lot actually. I still do."

"Why'd you break up?"

"It's… complicated." Ben just looked at him and rolled his eyes. "I don't really want to talk about it," Monroe grumbled. Unfortunately, which he should have expected anyway, the younger man wasn't quite ready to drop the topic of Nick just yet.

"So, you got any pictures of him? I'm intensely curious. Grammie said he was quite the looker."

Monroe didn't comment, just leaned over the side of the bed and shuffled through his discarded clothing looking for his phone. When he showed Ben the one picture of Nick he'd managed to procure during their brief - too brief - friendship, he was greeted with a pleased sound from the lithe body next to him.

"Wow! What the hell were you thinking letting _that _get away? I'd _pay _for a chance to suck his dick."

Monroe pulled the phone away quickly and clutched it to his bare chest defensively. "Little harsh considering we _just _finished having sex."

"Well, last time I checked, we weren't dating, or are you saying you'd like to?"

When Monroe failed to reply immediately, Ben laughed, "See, no problem then."

"I didn't say 'no…'" Though he wasn't sure he was completely for it either. Ben was a little… much. Too much.

"Yeah, but still… No offense, but frankly I'm not interested in dating someone as old as my dad."

"I'm not _that _old." But Ben was so much younger. Almost half his age.

"Nearly. Look, I'm not trying to offend you, but I'm also _not _saying I don't want to sleep with you again. It was fun, though you're a little soft for my liking. Next time, can we try to pretend we're having sex and not buttering a dinner roll?"

"…_What_?" Monroe yelped as he jolted into a sitting position. He felt a vein in his forehead begin to throb with irritation. The last thing he wanted to hear when he was already feeling down was how bad his technique was, especially from someone like Ben who had spent the last week poking fun at him for his age and his looks.

"You're not _fucking _a puff pastry," Ben teased. "Give it to me like you actually mean it. _Jesus_."

"I was trying to be careful," Monroe complained, his mood souring even more. "Nick… I was too rough with him. It's a big part of why we don't talk anymore."

He was interrupted by Ben's obnoxious giggling.

"It's not funny… It's a serious deal," Monroe bit out.

"Sorry, it's not funny," Ben chuckled, "but I'm having a hard time imagining it. You're as soft as a flower, honey. Unless he was a virgin and tight as fuck, you were probably just fine."

Monroe didn't say anything. He didn't know _what _to say. _Was _he that soft? Angelina used to complain as well, but he'd always thought she was a little on the masochistic side, even for a blutbad. And she was definitely a sadist when it suited her.

"Was he a virgin?" Ben asked when Monroe didn't give him an answer, sounding for once serious.

"I… he seemed like he knew what he was doing. But there was blood. And he was crying."

"How much blood?"

"…negligible amounts," Monroe admitted with embarrassment as he remembered the few droplets near the headboard that still failed to make sense to him. It'd smelled way more intense in the moment though.

"O-kay," Ben said, "maybe you were too rough, but I doubt it was as bad as you think. Maybe you just didn't prepare him enough or something. Did you use enough lube?"

"I don't know… we were really drunk. I don't really remember all that much, but… I feel like I _raped _him."

"Jesus Christ," Ben snorted, rolling his eyes. "You are seriously messed up." When Monroe eyed him seriously, Ben said, "Going along with this scenario for a minute, did he tell you to stop? Did you forcibly do it even though he told you not to?"

"No, I don't know. He was really depressed after he lost Juliette-"

"_Juliette_? Who's that? His sister?"

"His girlfriend. Oh, right," he said when he noticed Ben's dumbfounded face. "We weren't actually dating. Never were. We were just friends. But when he came over, he got drunk and I…I'd loved him for so long."

"So when he was good and sloshed you threw him down on a bed and ripped off all his clothes?"

"No. He… preformed fellatio on me and then I took him upstairs," Monroe finished in a soft whisper, his face completely red and the desire to crawl into a hole overwhelming.

"Oh, my god," Ben laughed. "You are absolutely retarded. You think you raped someone who _willingly_, might I add, _gave you head? _Oh. My. God. I think I might actually be embarrassed that I slept with you."

"You weren't there."

"Yeah, but it's not fucking _rocket science _that a guy willing to do that probably wants a little bit of something else on top of that."

"But it wasn't romantic. I didn't kiss him or hold him or anything. Everything was just right down to business."

"Then he's probably heartbroken, you idiot! That's why he's not talking to you. His heart was just broken by that dumb bitch and then you went and broke it again! But you at least told him you loved him, right? _Right?_"

Monroe hesitated, afraid of what might come out of Ben's mouth. "No…"

"Oh, my god. Then did you tell him you were gay at least?"

"Well, no, but I'm not." Ben gave him a look. "What? I'm not! I like women just fine, thank you. I've had tons of girlfriends." At Ben's raised brow, he mumbled, "Might be an exaggeration, but I've had plenty, you know."

"Mm-hmm. You just happen to find the poop-shoot suddenly attractive? And that dangling bit between other men's legs just _vastly _interesting?"

"Okay, honestly you're the second man I've ever slept with, but it's not the first time I've - You're suddenly frustrating me," Monroe bit out when Ben grinned at him. "But I'm not gay."

"But you love him."

"It's… different."

"So you've never thought about other men before? Other than me, of course. You were pretty direct with your lust."

"Can we talk about something else, please?"

"You just dinked a man. I'm not going to be all, 'My god, he's had gay thoughts before!'" Ben exclaimed in a silly falsetto, his hands clapped to his face in pretend horror. "But, since you're being so difficult…

"Anyway," he said as he changed the subject, slapping a hand against Monroe's bare chest with too much force to be affectionate, "Nick probably thinks you don't have feelings for him, all that melodramatic bullshit. Tell him how you feel and he'll be begging to crawl back into your bed."

"Extremely doubtful, but a man could hope, I suppose," Monroe offered, hoping they could just put this conversation to rest. "But I think Nick might be seeing someone else now," he said absently, thinking of the man he'd seen leaving the gallery with Nick in his arms.

"Someone you know?"

"No. Some man."

"Well, that just gives more credence to what I was saying, don't you think? I doubt he'd be jumping back into the sack with another man so quickly if sleeping with you was as traumatizing as you think."

"It was traumatizing for me…" Monroe replied, a breathy laugh following his sincere words.

But Ben's words made him think. He'd been wondering lately about that night. The more he thought back to it, the more he doubted his own version of events. He even remembered things that he knew couldn't have possibly happened. He remembered other people being there sometimes too, Angelina among them, and at times he remembered events in reverse order. Sometimes it wasn't even Nick in his bed at all. The only thing he knew for certain was that Nick had shown up at his door looking miserable and that he'd been gone come daylight. Everything else in between was hazy and confused. Since the younger man seemingly refused to talk to him - though he made no real effort on his own end - he knew he hadn't imagined the whole night, unfortunately.

Again he was back to the essential question. Had he raped Nick, or _had _it been entirely consensual? Why did Nick hate him so much then? Or did Nick hate him at all? Or was Nick truly in love with him?

"Well," Ben said as he snuggled up next to Monroe, his nosed pressed to the older man's, "if you didn't find sleeping with me all that traumatizing, how about we do it again, old man?"

Monroe let his irritation with the younger man slide; he was too goddamned cute for his own good. He breathed a surprisingly fond laugh as he nuzzled Ben's face to his own and pecked the man a few times on the lips. He contemplated telling Ben he hazarded on the verge of verbally abusive, but the younger man would probably just tell him to shut the fuck up and quit being an idiot.

He quickly decided against saying anything of the sort. Instead he said:

"I thought you were, to quote, 'embarrassed to have slept with me.'"

"Not saying I ain't. But, lucky for you, I am a horny twenty-five year old with an uncontrollable libido."

Monroe laughed. "Okay, but I have to go before your grandma gets back."

"Why? She won't care if we're sleeping together."

"Maybe not," though he doubted she'd be _that _lax aboutit, "but I'll never be able to show my face to her again."

"Okay, whatever," Ben said absentmindedly as he forced Monroe onto his back. "Less talking, more fucking. This time harder, okay?"

"Alright," Monroe said. "I think I can manage that."

* * *

The click of the front door caused Monroe to jolt from the bed and hurry to pull his clothes back on. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but Ben had been adamant on cuddling for awhile afterwards. He could probably manage to get out of the house without her noticing if he was careful.

It was probably because he was nervous of being caught that made him move through the house too quickly without bothering to pause and listen for movement. When he bolted around the corner into the living room, he came upon the older woman standing by the coffee table, a box of what smelled like fresh donuts in her hands. He froze, a guilty look crossing his face immediately as she turned to look at him. She eyed his disheveled appearance and his still unbuttoned over-shirt. There was no way she could not know. He could tell by the look on her face, the look of both surprise and a touch of disappointment, that she knew he'd gotten at her grandson while she was out. Ben was an adult, but Monroe was supposed to be the responsible one who knew better.

"H-hello, Olive."

"Hello, dear," she greeted him, her voice denoting the same bit of embarrassment he felt. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Oh, no, thank you though. I must be getting back…" he murmured, a hand clutching the lapels of his shirt together, the other touching against his hair as he stumbled quickly towards the door to put his shoes on in order to leave as quickly as possible.

* * *

Three days passed before Monroe could no longer ignore Ben's harassing texts and phone calls.

"What is it?" Monroe growled in a harsh whisper when he finally answered. He wasn't sure why he was whispering; he was inside of his own house and it wasn't like he'd really done anything wrong. Ben was a consenting adult, but he still felt like a cradle-robbing criminal.

"You know you can't hide forever," Ben replied. "And besides, I can't finish Aubrey's bedroom by myself you know. Kind of hard when you can't move around without the aide of crutches."

"I don't think your grandma wants me to come back. I kind of deflowered her poor, defenseless grandson," Monroe grumbled back, his voice thick with derision.

"Oh, bullshit. If anything, _I _seduced _you_. And besides, she's over it. She knows I'm gay and is okay with it, but that's the first time she's ever seen one of my boyfriends. Just a bit of a shock for her, nothing more. She'll get used to it."

Monroe wondered if that meant they'd be sleeping together on a frequent basis. He sort of liked the thought of that, though he'd make sure Olive was _not _around. Maybe he'd even invite Ben over to his house instead since everything was back to normal, no more random holes in the walls or destroyed furniture. They could even have dinners dates together, maybe even go out to see a few movies. Hell, maybe, 'She'll get used to it,' was code for, 'Let's date for real.'

He wasn't sure, but he was excited (albeit anxiously) at the prospect, though he was anything but eager to confirm this change with Ben himself. He'd wait as long as possible to be laughed at for that one. Until he figured out the situation with Nick, Ben was a nice place holder.

Oh, he was so going to hell for thinking that.

"Still…" Monroe said, hesitating. Maybe it would be better if he stayed away from Ben…

"Fine," Ben sighed. "If you deflowered the poor, crippled grandson, I raped her elderly neighbor."

"You are a complete asshole, you know."

"_And we_ _all know how you feel about those._"

Monroe laughed, dumbfounded he was having such an immature conversation. It was actually sort of nice.

"But you'll come over, right?" Ben whined, sounding for a brief second like a lovesick teenage girl. But he wasn't anything so innocent. "You know, I've _completely _forgotten how to masturbate so you're going to have to teach me. But I warn you, I'm sort of slow."

"You are so horrible… I'll be over soon."

* * *

Monroe was enjoying a quiet evening at home when his phone began to ring. He was surprised to see that it was Rosalee calling him and not Ben to tell him his zipper was stuck or the washing machine had broken and he was completely out of clothes and freezing. Monroe had never had so many booty calls in his life. He was starting to feel his age so it was actually nice to see a different number on the screen. It'd been awhile since he and Rosalee had talked, over two weeks. He highly doubted she'd completely forgiven him just yet though.

"Are you watching the news right now?" she asked immediately when he answered. He paused.

"Uh, no… should I be?" She was silent on her end; he imagined her long worn face, her eyes rolled towards the ceiling in mild annoyance. He turned on the television without further comment. "Which channel should I be watching…?"

"8."

"Ah, alright," Monroe murmured as he fumbled with the remote. "Oh, well that's a shame," Monroe said. "Another pedestrian hit by a bus… People really shouldn't wear dark clothing at night. Was it someone you knew?"

She sighed on her end. "It _is _really sad, but that's not what I wanted you to see."

"Oh. What am I supposed to be watching for exactly…"

"Just keep watching. Promise me you will."

"Yeah, yeah," Monroe said. "But I'll understand it when I see it, right?"

"You'll understand," she replied before she hung up. She was still extremely upset with him, he could tell, but it was nice to hear her voice again. He hoped one day they could go back to how they'd been. He missed her so much.

* * *

Monroe watched through the commercials, through several boring stories that were of no interest to him and updates on the poor person who'd been struck by the bus -it looked like they would make it though, luckily. He thought about calling Rosalee back to ask again what he was waiting for when the promo for the next round of stories after the break caught his attention. He sat back with astonishment when Nick's smiling face appeared on the screen before him.

"On next is our interview with local police detective turned artist, Nick Burkhardt."

He waited impatiently through the commercials, alternately pacing the length of his living room several times and sitting on the edge of his couch in front of the TV. When the news finally returned, he cranked the volume and waited with bated breath.

Just to see Nick's face again, his heart burned in his chest, but there was a sense of relief as well. He looked healthy, still remarkably thin, but a deal happier looking. And to hear his voice? It was a godsend.

The interview was relatively routine, but when they inevitably touched on the subject of Juliette, the skin around Nick's eyes creasing with sadness, Monroe's heart went out to him. He couldn't believe how insensitive the woman was; couldn't she see how much her questions bothered him?

"So," the woman newscaster interviewing Nick began in a voice bordering on coy. Monroe watched Nick shift uncomfortably in his chair; it was hardly noticeable, but he noticed. Nick's eyes darted to where Monroe assumed the teleprompter laid before the shot suddenly cut away from Nick to his own image. Or in fact the painting Nick had done of him, the one he'd seen in the gallery. He found himself unable to listen to the words; all he could see was Nick's face. The red flush against his cheeks, the demure smile against his lips and his soft eyes.

He couldn't believe his own eyes at what he was seeing.

Nick… was in love with him?

The only words he heard was, "It's… complicated."

His phone started to ring almost immediately; he expected Rosalee again, but it was Jacquie. He considered ignoring it; he was pretty pissed she called him right at the tail end of Nick's interview. If she'd called even a minute earlier, he was likely to have snapped his phone in half out of anger.

When he answered, she cried frantically, "You need to come over right now!"

"What -"

"Get over here as quickly as possible!"

Monroe dropped the remote as he bolted for the door, completely forgetting Nick, his shoes or even to close the front door. Her voice was so hysterical, he feared the absolute worst that one of the girls was hurt.

"Did you see the news?" she exclaimed when Monroe burst through the front door, nearly taking the poor thing off of its hinges.

"_What?!_" Monroe yelled.

"Nick was on the news!" she said excitedly as she pointed the remote at the television to rewind it to show him.

"I thought you or the girls were in danger!" he boomed loudly, his voice causing some of her collectable figurines to shake on the shelves. "Don't _ever _do that to me again!"

She shrunk down in embarrassment like a naughty child. "I'm sorry. I was just excited… I taped it for you…" she offered in a little voice, a guilty smile on her lips.

"What's all the yelling about?" Carmen asked as she peeked her head into the living room. She looked between the two of them warily, her hand hesitating on her pocket where her phone probably was. Monroe wondered how many violent fights she'd witnessed between her parents in the past.

"You're mother nearly gave me a heart attack," Monroe quickly explained, ashamed he'd scared the girl.

"She does that," Carmen agreed, her brows raised.

"But it was important," her mother whined softly. "Nick's on the news…"

Monroe slumped onto the couch besides her and let her replay the whole interview for him. He regretted never getting the DVR now that he had a reason to save something to be replayed over and over again.

When the interview was over, Jacquie asked, "So, how are you getting him back? Obviously he still loves you."

Monroe rubbed his chin while he thought about it. He was about to ask her, her opinion when his phone rang again. This time Ben, his guilty loose end. Though Ben was supportive of Monroe getting back together with Nick (as far as he could tell, unless he was completely incapable of reading between the lines of Ben's words correctly), they'd been sleeping together almost every day; they were almost something akin to lovers. If he started dating Nick, they'd have to essentially 'break up.' Which meant they couldn't sleep together anymore (which was obvious, but somehow he doubted Ben would draw that conclusion immediately). Did Ben understand what he was supporting? Or would things be different now that they were getting to know each other better and were more than just casual partners?

"Just a second," he told Jacquie. "I have to get this."

Monroe stepped out onto the front porch and answered his phone. "Hey, Ben."

"Hey, can you come over?"

"Uh, right now?"

"Why, you have something better to do?" Somehow that even sounded like an insult. _I do have a life outside of you, _Monroe wanted to complain. Though Monroe did feel guilty for thinking about getting 'back together' with Nick just moments before (despite the fact they'd never dated) with Ben still on his radar, even though he'd loved Nick first. His feelings for Ben were complicated at best. He considered Ben to be a rebound in his head, though he was developing genuine feelings of affection for him as of late.

"So are you coming over?" Ben demanded almost angrily.

"I'm at Jacquie's -"

"Please don't tell me you're sleeping with her too."

"What? No! Fine. I'll be over in twenty minutes, alright?"

"Twenty minutes?"

"Diddle yourself for awhile if you can't wait. God, you have no control over yourself."

Ben laughed, a deep, melodic ring in his ear. "That's not why I want you to come over, but…" Monroe could hear the wink in his voice. When Ben hung up the phone, he was intensely curious to know why Ben wanted him to come over if not for sex.

Oh no, what if it was something scary like dinner with his parents? Oh, he was going to rot in hell…

* * *

Monroe left Jacquie's a little earlier than he'd planned on, promising her they'd get together later in the week and talk about ways Monroe could woo Nick back. At Olive's, Monroe let himself in, something he'd been encouraged to do since Olive really did have questionable hearing at times and Ben couldn't always get to the door - or so he claimed. Ben was apt to play the part of the 'pitiful cripple, pity me, wah wah' when it meant he could be exceptionally lazy. Monroe would have admonished him for it long ago if it hadn't led to him finding the man posed naked on the couch when Olive was out visiting a friend. Monroe didn't know what he'd find since Ben had been quite clear that sex wasn't the number one reason why he wanted Monroe to come over (it was likely number two or three at the very least).

Monroe actually stopped in his tracks when he saw Nick's face blazoned on the television screen in the living room.

"Look what I found," Ben said as he gestured for Monroe to sit on the couch next to him. Monroe stumbled to the couch and sat down, his head shaking slightly in disbelief. "You'll never believe it."

"God, you too?" Monroe laughed breathlessly. Ben shot him a confused look. "This was why I was at Jacquie's. She wanted to show me this too."

"Oh, so you've seen it already…"

Monroe wanted an excuse to see it again; maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Do you not want to see it again?" Ben asked slowly. "We don't have to watch it."

"No, no. I do. But I thought maybe you'd be upset."

"Why would I be upset..?" He sounded genuinely curious. "What'd he say? I haven't watched it yet. Is it really bad?"

"No. I just thought maybe because…" _Because we're sleeping together. Or doesn't it bother you at all? _

"Well, I want to see it, so we're watching it," Ben demanded as he un-paused the television and they watched the interview in silence. When it was over, Ben turned to look at him. "Well?" he said.

Monroe glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine in vain whether or not he was walking into a trap. Again he was at a loss. Did Ben have absolutely no feelings for him? It would make things a lot easier when the time came, but it made him feel a little hollow inside.

"Well?" Ben asked again, his brows raised expectantly.

"What?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I… don't know."

"What do you mean, 'I don't know?' He's obviously still in love with you! Get him flowers, take him out to dinner. For the love of Christ, do something!" Monroe felt like a scolded child. "If you don't do something, I will march - figuratively - down to Nick's house and tell him _myself _that you are flippin' retarded man-child who doesn't have the balls to tell him yourself that you love him. _Are we clear_?"

"You don't know where he lives," Monroe reminded him. "_I _don't even know where he lives."

"I will find his address." He was so adamant about it that Monroe wondered if he actually could. "You know where he works though, don't you?"

"Yeah, at the police… station." He regretted the words as they left his mouth because of the fiery glint in Ben's eyes.

"Then you have no excuses. And if you don't go, I will."

He really didn't have any and he really didn't want Ben and Nick to meet under those circumstances.

* * *

Ben didn't 'march' down to the station like he'd threatened (probably because his grandmother didn't drive and Monroe refused to take him), but he didn't hesitate to remind Monroe to figure it out soon, even while in the midst of lovemaking - Nick's apparent reciprocal feelings doing nothing to damper the fire in Ben's belly. It was incredibly annoying. On the bright side, he did help Monroe, along with both Jacquie and even Rosalee at times (almost as though forgetting her anger at him) to collect all of the interviews of Nick they could find in both the news and in the papers. Monroe was surprised by the sheer number of them and the amount of fame Nick had managed to accrue in such a short period of time. It didn't take long, however, for Monroe to discover the pattern. It angered him that it wasn't so much Nick's art that made him famous but the total abuse of the detective as a ploy for ratings, each interviewer hoping to one-up the other and get to the bottom of the story. All they truly wanted was to dissect and expose Nick's life and his supposed love affair with another man. The media's clinical fascination disgusted Monroe. Nick was more than just a tabloid story. He had a feeling if it'd been a woman, no one would have cared; Nick would probably still be nameless. But because it was a man, it was all they could think about. Monroe wanted to yell at the screen; yell at these heartless, pieces of trash. Couldn't they see his talent? Was he nothing more than his bed partners to them?

In the end, it was all just rumors; Nick admitted to nothing.

One interview in particular was extraordinarily terrible. From the way Nick sat perched on the edge of his chair, Monroe could tell he was debating within himself on just leaving. Nick's once enthused face was gone, left behind was a mask of barely contained anger. Why did he put up with such abuse from these rating mongers?

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," the interviewer, a man, said as he sat across from Nick, "but word has it, this man, 'Monroe?'" He examined his note card again. "was an ex-lover of yours?"

The look that crossed Nick's face froze Monroe's heart. A look of anger and perhaps even hatred. Was it reserved for the man across from him, for the people who dogged him for answers, or for Monroe - the man who'd caused all of it in the first place? Had Monroe been wrong about what he'd thought he'd seen in Nick's face in the beginning? A measure of love and adoration.

"Now, I know a lot of rumors have been floating around about my painting and who this mysterious person is," Nick bit out, almost seething, "but I refuse to spend any more time on the matter. He's a close friend of mine and I would like to respect his privacy and decline any more questions in regards to his personal life or our relationship."

Monroe supposed the accusations could have been worse. Perhaps it was arguable to think Nick's sore feelings were for exactly who Monroe hated as well.

* * *

Monroe was startled by the sudden pounding on his door days later. He wondered if it was Jacquie with more articles or even Olive who had gotten involved with hunting down newspaper clippings on Nick or anything else she could find. He doubted it was Ben since he usually chose to call instead of coming over, even though Monroe had installed a very nice ramp for him.

Who he didn't expect to see was a grim faced Hank staring up at him. At the sight of the blutbad, the senior detective's face turned sour. He immediately started in on the taller man, an angry finger thrust into the blutbad's chest.

"I turn my back for a second and this is what you do? I told you to make good with Nick, not toss him around like a rag doll."

"Rag doll… Wait… What are you talking about?" Monroe snapped, his tone bordering on frantic. "What happened to him? Is he okay?!"

Monroe must have passed some sort of unsaid test because Hank immediately said, "Okay, I didn't think it was you, though to be honest, if it was anyone I was sort of hoping it was you because then I'd know who to kill."

Being Hank's number one target didn't make Monroe feel any better, but that wasn't what concerned him the most at the moment. Hank crossed his arms as he continued to talk.

"Someone's been smacking Nick around. He has all the tell tale signs. Bruising, secretive behavior. He won't come clean about it, so I wondered if it might be you."

"Me?! I haven't seen him since -" Monroe cleared his throat. "I went by his house awhile back and he was gone. Moved out… Besides, I would never do that to Nick. Not in a million years."

Hank nodded his head slowly, probably irritated Monroe had ignored his previous instructions.

"But why me?" Monroe asked.

"Nick's feelings for you are pretty strong," Monroe flushed at the words, "I figured he'd be willing to protect your image, even if it meant lying to me. And since he's been acting a lot happier - aside from the bruising - I thought maybe the two of you had gotten back together. But I guess not.

"Yesterday," Hank continued, "Nick mentioned some new guy, Dean, I think he said? He might be a new boyfriend, though he'd never admit that to me," Hank said, a touch of regret to his voice. "Nick says he's just a roommate, but from the amount of bruising I've seen on Nick, the guy is bad news regardless."

"When you say bruising, what do you mean by that?"

"First it was just on his arms, but now it's on his face. Nick says he fell down some stairs, but that's a pretty thin excuse to me."

"What do you want me to do about it exactly?" Monroe asked slowly. Hank raised a brow. "I assume since you're telling me all of this, you want me to do something…"

Hank sighed and re-crossed his arms. "As Nick's ex -"

"Whoa-ho. _Ex? _We never dated. We were never… Okay, yes, we had… relations. _Once_," Monroe sputtered, finally admitting the truth to Hank since the other man would seemingly never let up on his suspicions. "But that doesn't mean… Okay, I'm going to stop talking now."

"As I was saying," Hank started again, completely unfazed by Monroe's blabbering, "_as Nick's ex_, I think you should at least make sure this guy checks out. If not…" He shrugged, but from the dangerous look in his eyes, Monroe knew Hank was anything but cool about the whole situation.

"I doubt Nick will appreciate me butting into his business," Monroe reasoned weakly.

"Maybe not, but he won't talk to me about it."

Hank suddenly held up a slip of lined, notebook paper between two fingers.

"You said you didn't know where Nick lived? I'll give you his address on one condition: take care of this guy for me. Maybe Nick will listen to you. Maybe he won't, but you're a pretty big guy yourself. I just need you to spook this Dean guy a bit. I'd do it myself, but my hands are tied legally. And don't worry," he added when he noticed Monroe's hesitant look. "I'll make sure this doesn't come back to bite you in the butt."

"Fine, I'll take care of it," Monroe agreed a bit begrudgingly as he snatched the slip of paper from Hank. He highly doubted Nick was being tossed around by some asshole of a boyfriend. Nick wouldn't put up with that kind of shit from some guy. He'd seen Nick hand it to all sorts of formidable wesen; a standard human male had nothing on say a blutbad or a siegbarste, but he doubted Nick would date or room with either, especially the latter. He'd check out Nick's new house like Hank asked, but if he found anything, he'd most likely find a dainty little beauty waiting there instead of some abusive dick. It was more probable that Nick had been getting mixed up with bad wesen again, and without Monroe to watch his back, he'd be getting the full force of the blows. Monroe just hoped it wasn't Reapers or worse. He felt guilty imagining all of the times Nick had needed him in the last few months and hadn't been there. All because he'd been too embarrassed to face the Grimm.

The fond look he'd seen splayed across Nick's face flashed in his mind.

If Nick reserved feelings for him, this could be his last chance to get their relationship back on track. He just hoped he wasn't too late, Nick already tied up in a different relationship or too fed up with Monroe to bother with him anymore.

* * *

If Monroe was going to win Nick over, he'd need to do it right, especially if he had to woo Nick away from someone else, and considering Nick's looks, anyone Nick dated was likely to look far better than Monroe. Thus far Monroe planned on surprising Nick with a romantic apology dinner, but planning it was proving to be complicated. He wanted it to be perfect, so he had yet to stop by Nick's just yet, but the more he thought about Hank's concerns, the more it started to eat away at him. He really didn't have all the time in the world to pick out the best cuts of meat or the freshest, seasonal vegetables and research flower meanings. If Nick was getting bruised and Hank was concerned, something was wrong because Nick had been a Grimm for at least a year and in that time he'd managed to amass quite a few nasty injuries while dealing with wesen. Why would Hank worry now with that sort of history? Shouldn't Hank have started to worry back when Nick first came into his powers, back when he was still with Juliette?

Maybe there was a guy… which would mean a few adjustments to his plan. And it wasn't the man's looks that were necessarily the issue anymore. If Nick was dating men as physically intimidating as the one he'd hooked up with at the gallery, it was an actual possibility that he was getting hurt one way or another, whether on purpose, by accident or by sheer coincidence. Monroe would still have to intervene at least a little; Nick really shouldn't be a relationship like that. He didn't have an excuse to let himself be treated that way. Monroe might not have another shot at it with Nick, but at least he'd make sure Nick was with someone who treated him the way he deserved to be treated.

Monroe was left at a loss; proceed and show up unannounced and hope for the best or scope things out and go from there? He decided to ask Ben's opinion about it (though he doubted how beneficial it would truly be); Monroe supposed he also (a bit selfishly) wanted someone to tell him he was worrying about something completely ridiculous, which was something Ben could actually do.

The next evening when they were laying in bed together, Olive already asleep even though it was still early, only eight, and Ben at his house, Monroe decided up the subject of Nick. He said, finding no delicate way of stating it:

"Hank thinks I'm abusing Nick."

"Hank?" Ben queried softly as he perked his head up; he stretched his legs, his toes tickling Monroe's ankles.

"His partner. _Police partner_," Monroe clarified.

"Why would he think that? You haven't even seen him lately," he murmured, drawing idly on Monroe's chest with a finger.

"I guess Nick's been coming into work covered in 'mysterious' bruises."

"So you think his new boyfriend's been abusing him, then?" Ben asked, for once sounding serious as he rolled off of Monroe and sat up.

"Well, that was Hank's other running theory, but no, I don't think so. I think Hank's just blowing things out of proportion. Nick's a detective. He's always getting hurt."

"But wouldn't Hank know about it, being his partner and all?" Ben proposed, not buying Monroe's explanation for a minute.

"Well," Monroe said, unsure of how to explain Nick's Grimm duties in a way a Kehrseite would understand without really understanding. "Nick also works as a Private Investigator on the side. Likely any mysterious bruising would be linked to that. It wouldn't be the first time."

"But what if there _is _an abusive boyfriend. You're just going to brush it off like that?"

"No, but I highly doubt it. Nick isn't like that. He wouldn't let some jackass push him around like that. He's pretty tough. He could probably kick _my_ ass."

"You're being awfully obstinate," Ben complained as he sunk down onto his belly, his chin perched on one hand. "It's almost like you're looking for excuses not to pursue him any more. Almost as though you're, _gasp_, in love with me," Ben teased while fluttering his eyelashes. Monroe rolled his eyes, though he was indeed growing dangerously fond of the younger man.

"Don't get me wrong. If I _knew _the guy was beating on Nick, I wouldn't hesitate to pummel him into the ground. I'd do it for any of my exes. But the likelihood of that being the case is slim to none." _Believe me. You've never seen Nick backed into a corner. Any man brave enough to hazard a blow to Nick is probably already in jail or six feet under._

"But doesn't that make you just the _least _bit curious?" Ben continued, not about to be put off. "Aren't you dying to know what kind of man he's been shacking it up with? Wouldn't you feel better knowing everything's okay?"

"Well, there is this one guy I saw him hooking up with…"

Ben gave him a look. "You've been _stalking _him?"

"_No!_ Well, a little… but that was before! And just the once!"

"Is it the same guy you thought Nick was dating before?"

"Not sure. Maybe."

"And he wasn't the kind of guy who would do something like that to Nick?"

"How should I know? I don't know the guy. I just know Nick. And I know Nick, like I said, would never let anyone do that to him."

Ben crossed his arms, a grumpy look on his face. Monroe sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

A hour later found Monroe outside of what he hoped was the correct house. He checked the address several times against the faded metal numbers besides what he assumed was the front door (it was honestly hard to tell; the whole house was an architectural nightmare and was way too large for one person, or even two for that matter, to live in alone). There weren't any cars parked out front, which was a good sign since he wasn't sure Nick would appreciate the surprise visit, especially so late. He assumed Nick was likely still at work. He wasn't sure about the other one. Dean? It was also a possibility that Nick was spending the night somewhere else. He had no idea.

Regardless, it was Monroe's chance to investigate so he wasn't about to waste the opportunity wondering all night. Satisfied he had the correct house, Monroe followed the gravel driveway around to the back and parked behind what appeared to be the remains of a large barn. He cut the engine and sat for awhile, wondering what the hell he was exactly intending to do. He knew _why _he was supposed to be there, to make sure Nick was alright, but he knew his own motivations were a little more selfish. Honestly he was more interested in scoping out the competition and seeing what sort of person caught Nick's attention. He knew Nick could handle his own, so his 'real' reason was bunk.

In the end, Monroe winded up wandering around the house for awhile, checking for signs of any recent wesen activity and looking for broken door or window locks. When he was satisfied that the house was relatively safe (a few of the windows he'd managed to open from the outside and the back door had been left unlocked - he rolled his eyes at Nick's negligence - he began to mark the place as his own territory every few yards or so. He didn't know what the other male was (he could detect an odor other than Nick's), but if it _was _wesen, it would likely hightail it after getting a whiff of Monroe's scent. Monroe was not holding back on his intent of what he saw the property as, or Nick for that matter. Nick wouldn't be able to detect the smell since Monroe was careful in the amount he marked with, but any other wesen, even wild animals, would be able to tell hundreds of yards out. He supposed he'd be found out if the male _was _a wesen, since he'd tell Nick immediately that a blutbad had done it. And as far as he knew, Nick only knew one blutbad - Angelina did not count.

If Nick would have him, he wouldn't shy away from a territory battle. But if he wouldn't, even after listening to what Monroe had to say, he would willingly slink back to Ben once and for all with his tail between his legs in the most dignified way possible.

* * *

At the sudden flash of headlights, Monroe skirted behind a scraggly bush, laid flat out on his belly. He was thankful for the darkness - the night cloudy with no moon in sight; he hadn't intended to stay for as long as he had, but now he was pretty much stuck. Poking his head around the brambles, he saw that it was Nick's truck. He watched as Nick slowly got out of his vehicle and ambled up to the front steps, his feet dragging tiredly. Monroe waited until Nick had been inside of the house for nearly twenty minutes before leaving the safety of his bush. He skulked towards the house, sticking to the shadows, before peering into the few windows emanating light. He watched Nick pace for awhile, an anxious look on his face. Monroe wondered what he was worried about. A case?

Eventually Nick wandered off somewhere upstairs (a light flickering on where he assumed the younger man's bedroom was); he continued to watch as the detective ended up back in the main living room area and flicked on the TV. After an hour or so, Nick switched off the television and sat in mostly darkness, his face distance. Monroe wasn't sure how long he stood like that, watching Nick stare off into space, until the sound of crunching gravel sent Monroe scrambling for the far side of the house where some overgrown rosebushes stood. Another car, a beat up Mazda, came rumbling up the drive. Monroe watched with keen interest to know who or what would come sauntering out of that little piece of junk.

He was actually jealous and extremely put off when he recognized the man from the gallery all those weeks ago. He couldn't believe Nick was actually still sleeping with the guy. Well, the guy _was _attractive, so he supposed it wasn't that hard to believe.

When the man was safely inside of the house, Monroe quickly crept around the perimeter of the house to the back to peer into the windows on the opposite side of the main living area. He watched Nick and the man share a few short kisses before the other man shed his coat onto the back of an arm chair and flopped onto the couch. Nick stood awkwardly behind him as though he wasn't quite sure what to do.

Monroe felt that vein in his forehead throb. If it was him in there, he wouldn't ignore Nick like that. He'd ask Nick about his day as he got a late dinner started, or if they'd already eaten, they'd be relaxing on the couch watching a movie together, cuddling, or maybe reading. Hell, he'd do whatever Nick wanted. Or if he was really lucky, they'd already be up in the bedroom.

Monroe shook off the thought. It was sort of stupid at that point.

Nick eventually moved away from the back of the couch and started heading towards the back of the house to the large cement and glass structure Monroe had previously assumed to be a solarium, which was exactly in line of sight to where Monroe was currently standing. The blutbad booked it for the field and crouched on his heels behind the tall weeds. When the lights eventually flickered on, one by one, Monroe was surprised to find it wasn't a solarium, but an art studio.

Nick sat himself down on a stool and stared at a canvas, the butt of a paintbrush between his teeth as he contemplated his next move. It was impossible for Monroe to leave at that point; both Nick and his boyfriend would hear him pulling out - his car wasn't exactly known for stealth, so he decided he might as well get comfortable.

Monroe spent the next several hours watching Nick paint. It was a relaxing sight; he just wished that one day he'd get to watch from beside Nick's shoulder instead of from the field like a pervert.

* * *

Monroe woke the next morning with a crick in his neck from spending the night crunched up in his little car. The barn probably would have been more comfortable, but he couldn't stand the smell of animal droppings or the incessant cooing of pigeons in the rafters. When both Nick and his beau left for the day, Monroe was thankful to be able to go home and take a long, hot shower. He collapsed onto the couch for a nap; it was short lived, however, when his phone started to ring. It was Ben.

"Are you coming over?"

"Right now?" Monroe complained. _Don't you have work or anything better to do than bother me? _Monroe wondered, though he knew the other man didn't.

"Yeah. Well, are you?"

"I got stuck at Nick's, so I'm trying to sleep. Make up for a long night, no thanks to you."

"Sleep here, then." Monroe hesitated. "My grammie's at bingo. She'll be gone for some time, if you know what I mean."

Monroe wasn't sure he was up for that, he was tired as hell and a little bummed out, but maybe Ben could take the edge off the loneliness.

"Alright. Give me a few minutes."

* * *

"So, what was he like?" Ben asked regarding Nick's boyfriend.

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Monroe complained as Ben moved on top of him, his hips bouncing slightly with each thrust. Ben had managed to talk him into sex, which was embarrassingly easy, even despite the haggard way Monroe felt. He'd hoped to sleep for a few hours afterwards, so he really wasn't looking forward to a full on interrogation about the night before.

"Yes, we have to talk about this now," the younger man said without any consideration towards Monroe, like there ever would be. As usual, Monroe had no choice.

"He didn't seem that bad. Mostly just ignored Nick."

"Was he hot?"

"Hm?" Monroe murmured, pretending not to have heard. He really didn't want to answer that.

"Was he hot, I asked," Ben asked again, his body ceasing to move on top of Monroe. Monroe felt like grumbling, especially when Ben moved far enough out of reach, his hands against the older man's hips so he couldn't continue without answering Ben's questions to his liking.

"Yeah, he was good looking," Monroe finally offered, though he honestly could have waited until Ben gave in; he could see the younger man's arms and legs trembling from the effort of keeping himself completely supported without leaning most of his weight into Monroe. "And no, I didn't see them getting down and dirty so don't even ask me to relate any detailed descriptions of his anatomy to you, you pervert."

Pleased with Monroe's answer, Ben sank back into Monroe's lap and began to move again, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, not that Monroe would ever mention it. He'd get punched in the face if he did that.

"So you don't think he's doing anything untoward?" Ben asked seriously.

"Not really, but I didn't see much."

"So are you going back?"

"I don't think it's necessary…"

"Well, you should be sure. And then chances are you _will _be able to make me up that detailed report."

"There _are _laws against peeping toms, you know."

"Then don't get caught," he grinned, completely cat-like.

* * *

When they'd finished, Ben slumped against Monroe's side and curled up under the bigger man's arm.

"Well, there's my exercise for the day."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Monroe said as he stroked a hand through Ben's blond hair. He felt the man next to him curl up tighter, pouting.

"Please don't make me take a walk. I'm not a fucking dog."

"You need to exercise. It's good for you. Besides, your grandma asked me to look after you, so you don't have a choice. It's probably the only reason your grandma still lets me come over."

"Fine," Ben huffed. "Though I don't see why sex doesn't count as a justifiable form of exercise."

Monroe shrugged. "Think of it as a bonus."

Ben didn't comment; he was too sullen about the impending 'idiots' parade,' as he liked to call it, down the street. He suddenly snapped to attention though and reached out an arm to rifle under the pillow beneath Monroe's head.

"What's this?" he asked. Monroe turned his head and noticed the familiar green lump of cloth he kept hidden in the other's hand.

"Put that back!" Monroe demanded reflexively, his voice frantic. Ben eyes widened in shock at the sudden outburst before creasing with utter pleasure.

"Oh. My. God. You keep one of his shirts under your pillow?" He rolled out of Monroe's immediate reach and sniffed the fabric. "And you haven't even washed it! You _pervert_!"

Monroe grabbed Ben and pulled him back, distracting him with a kiss as he pulled the shirt out of his hands.

"I don't do anything perverted with it, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't make me sound as such."

"I guess it could be worse. A lock of hair or a used condom or even a clump of pubes," Ben said, listing them off on his fingertips like it was completely natural.

"You're disgusting."

"What else of Nick's do you have?" Ben asked, ignoring Monroe.

"Just the shirt. And I _was _planning on washing it. It's starting to smell gross." Which was true. The sweat was no longer sweet like Nick, but acrid and tangy, and the alcohol smell fading. He'd wash it in the morning; he had to do laundry anyway.

* * *

"This sucks," Ben complained as he stumbled along besides Monroe, leaning hard into his crutches. "I feel like you're my freakin' butler or wet-nurse walking besides me like that."

Monroe supposed it would seem that way since he was walking very slowly while carrying the other man's folded up wheelchair under his arm.

"Well, would you feel better if you thought of me as your boyfriend..?" Monroe asked a bit nervously; it was the first time he'd seriously posed the relationship question to the younger man. Things were so ambiguous at the moment and with Nick in what appeared to be an actual relationship, he wanted to know Ben was there to fall back on.

Ben laughed though. "My dad would literally murder you if heard you say that."

"God, not that again."

"You're about the same age as my uncle. He wouldn't understand. Wouldn't _want _to understand. Besides."

Monroe was disappointed Ben still felt that way. Sure, they'd only been 'together' for a few weeks, but was the thought of them together officially such an impossible notion? If he as honest with himself, he sort of knew Ben would never see them as genuine partners. He'd always be relegated to friends with benefits. He had a feeling Ben was only sleeping with him because he hadn't found anyone better yet. It would certainly explain a lot. The younger man was way too attractive to give Monroe the time of day - same as Nick. Once Ben was back in school, he'd probably find someone closer to his age. It was a depressing thought, but Monroe was used to it. It came with the territory of not being very good-looking.

"Ugh, this just sucks so much. What's the point?" Ben complained loudly, interrupting Monroe's melancholy thoughts. "I'll be wheelchair bound for the rest of my life anyway. It's not like I'll escape it by making an ass of myself for everyone to see. I can't even hold your hand like a normal person because of these fucking things," he seethed, waving one of this crutches around while leaning almost all of his weight into the other one. "Even in my chair, I couldn't. _Just cut off my hands, Lord! _God knows I don't need them!" he screamed angrily towards the sky.

Monroe chuckled, feeling a little bit better that Ben actually wanted to hold his hand. Maybe there was a little hope. Maybe Ben felt just as insecure and confused.

"Actually," Ben said, "I'll keep the right hand. It comes in handy." He glanced at his left. "Nah, I'll keep them both. I like to use that one too sometimes."

Monroe didn't want to push his luck, so he remained silent. After awhile, Ben asked, "So, what are you going to do about Nick?"

Monroe sighed. "I suppose I should let him go. He seems…" Happy wasn't exactly the word he wanted to use… Even 'content' was pushing it.

"The man's covered in 'mysterious' bruises. You can't just let that fly. I think you should bust into Nick's house and kick the guy's ass and then spirit Nick off into the wilderness like some sort of modern day caveman. Lord knows you dress like one," Ben teased, a smile on his lips.

"You are ridiculously mean, you know that? Besides, this isn't some sort of thriller-romance. Life doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, stupid laws." Monroe didn't think legislation was the key issue. "Still, you should at least tell Nick you still love him, or in fact," Ben said as he came to a stop and whacked Monroe with one of his crutches, "you need to tell him that you _do _love him since you were too chicken to do it before. He never knew, you asshole. I'll bet you my two useless legs he still loves you. News report says so."

Monroe really couldn't argue with that, and because it looked like Ben wanted to whack him again.

"Now," Ben concluded, "carry me back."

Monroe laughed. "Nope. For hitting me, you can carry yourself back," he said flippantly as he turned and headed back down the street, taking Ben's wheelchair with him.

"You ass!" the younger man called after him. Monroe pretended not to hear him calling. Served him right.

* * *

It was hard not to feel creepy the longer Monroe watched Nick's house. For the past week he'd spent just about every night outside of the house observing the two men inside. Thus far he hadn't seen much. One thing he'd noticed, which he thought was a little odd, was Nick's discomfort around the other man. He'd seen briefly the comfortable nature Nick had shared with Juliette; the way he acted around this other man was odd. They weren't as close and affectionate as he would have assumed.

On the fifth night, things changed. Suddenly there was more basis to Hank's concerns as Monroe watched the taller man grab Nick hard by the upper arms and shove him against a wall. Monroe could tell by the minute change in the Grimm's face that he felt pain, the way the muscles around his mouth tightened. When Nick didn't immediately toss the man across the room for touching him that way, Monroe had to stop himself from doing it himself. He wanted nothing more than to gut the other man, spill his intestines across the floor. He doubted Nick would appreciate the gory display, but it was convincing himself that it wouldn't be worth it in the end that proved to be the harder sell. He wondered how pissed Nick would be if he just happened to rip one of the guy's arms off. He'd give the man a choice of which arm he wouldn't mind losing the most though. He wasn't _that _cruel. _"Oh, sorry. What I should have said was, 'my left or my right.'" _Monroe couldn't stop himself from grinning a little sadistically at the thought.

Honestly he never would have thought Nick capable of being in that sort of situation. He'd seen the man kick the ass of a skalenzahne; how could a mere human man cause Nick so much discomfort? He couldn't detect the Grimm's blood on the premise, even dried, so at least it'd never escalated to anything that violent, but it didn't change the severity of the situation or eliminate the possibility that things wouldn't end that way.

Watching the violent bastard slowly remove articles of Nick's clothing, one by one, placing kisses in spots too dark to be just shadows, Monroe seethed. He wasn't positive because of the hazy lighting, but he was pretty sure some of those were bruises. The ones Hank _hadn't _seen. From Nick's unfazed manner towards the other's violent behavior, Monroe concluded that this wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

He couldn't believe his own eyes. Nick knew that wasn't normal, right? He didn't honestly believe he deserved to be treated that way… did he?

Monroe wasn't sure which bothered him more: Nick putting up with that bullshit or the fact that Monroe wasn't already picking loose chunks of meat from between his teeth.

* * *

Eventually Monroe had to turn away the more intense and passionate they got, but he found himself unable to leave his spot outside of the window. There wasn't a single voyeuristic thing about his desire to stay; he was just worried. Worried that man would hurt Nick even worse without him there. Internally he knew Nick must be able to take care of himself if it came down to it, but he wanted to be there just incase the young detective needed him. Just incase things got out of control too quickly. Just incase Nick was drunk and vulnerable like the last time and needed someone to intervene.

* * *

It was another uncomfortable night spent in his car. It'd been some time since he'd had that dark dream. Again the forest and the sense of dread pulsating through him. He ran through the thick brush of trees, the earth soft under his bare feet. No, not feet. Paws, four of them.

He was the beast now, the wolf, the creature he'd feared, no longer its prey. He was the one chasing, stalking, eager for the kill. Yet still the terror loomed heavy in the air.

He knew it didn't matter what path he took, which turns he made, for they always led to the same place. And there he found it. The pit. But the sight of Nick standing above it, his back to Monroe, caused the other to slide to a sudden halt several paces away, the hair on the back of his neck bristling with unease. His brain was hazy with uncertainty as he stared at the smaller man's back. He could taste the fresh blood on his lips, but this Nick wasn't dead. Was he hunting Nick? Whose blood did he taste?

The figure of Nick shifted and began to turn then. Trepidation clung to Monroe like dew to his fur; he feared what he'd see when the man fully faced him.

But it was Nick. Happy, beautiful Nick. His usual warm smile settling on his two rosy lips. The Grimm reached out a hand towards him, his fingers beckoning him forward. Heart thudding heavy in his chest, Monroe stepped forward as a man and wound his arms around Nick's smaller body, his chin coming to rest in the gap between neck and shoulder. Nick reciprocated the gesture, his hands brushing through Monroe's thick black fur, his body warm and alive with heat. He could feel Nick's own heart beat under his. Its beating an echo to his own.

But the taste of blood was still there, thick on his tongue, several droplets breaking free from his teeth to fall against Nick's crisp, white skin, marring its surface with an alien red. Monroe's hands tightened around Nick's back, terrified the man might disappear out from under him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Nick murmured as though understanding Monroe's fear, his breath tickling the hair of his pointed black ear.

Despite Nick's calm reassurance, Monroe could feel the dirt threatening to crumble under their feet, the earth loosening and shifting. Over Nick's shoulder he spied the hole, the pit that had been Nick's grave for so long. He feared to look, what he'd still find. But at the bottom, a different corpse laid there in a bloody, horrific mess. It wasn't Nick, and suddenly the blood tasted all that much sweeter in his mouth. He recognized the face of Nick's tormentor, his own rival, despite the bloodied, demonic mask it wore.

TBC

* * *

A/N: What is this crap? Lol. I had fun, perhaps too much. I do hope it brought some amusement to you though. Anyway, I hope at least it was a far happier chapter (by the standards set by this story thus far). A nice diversion before chapter 11. Ominous chapter 11! lol

Okay, I am done. Thanks for reading! Please deposit any thoughts below, lol.


	11. ABSOLUTION VII: HEAT

Thank you everyone for your patience; I've (nearly) finished all of my friend's wedding stuff. Once centerpiece left… But still! YEEEEEESSSS! *Ode to Joy starts booming on the stereo held above my head; fireworks burst along the horizon; children dance in the streets; tears of utter joy cascade down my cheeks*

Anyway. Omg, why is this chapter so long? Sorry for all da bullcrappitiness. Sometimes I just start typing and stuff just appears, then I become fond of it for reasons indiscernible to me (or anyone else) and then you're all made to suffer my weakness of character (also I type weird things when I am tired). Within my word processor… 40 pages. WHY? It takes me FOREVER to edit anyway… I hope it was worth the wait? I don't want to read it again so please accept this as a peace offering. :/

**Warning: **Lot's of swearing and violence; it finally earns its M rating :/ Thorry. A wink to those who (like me) enjoy that sort of thing, along with an admonishing finger wagging ;) Prease enjoi.

* * *

ABSOLUTION VII: Heat

Nick was somewhat caught off guard when he found Deon trying to sneak a few boxes into the house.

"What's with the boxes?" Nick asked slowly as he entered the front foyer. Deon jumped, the screen door banging him in the back.

"Nick… I didn't know you were home," Deon replied just as hesitantly. A somewhat guilty look crossed his features.

"What are you doing?" Nick asked again, his eyes never leaving Deon's despite the other's refusal to meet his gaze.

"Just bringing some stuff by. Clothes, you know; the usual."

"Seems like a lot of stuff," Nick commented. "Do you want to tell me something?"

"Uh," Deon uttered as he once again hesitated, his eyes looking anywhere but at Nick. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion in his head though as he set the box on the floor and stood up tall. "Yeah, I need to talk to you."

"Okay," Nick said as he crossed his arms. He wasn't particularly upset, after all, it was something that was a long time in coming.

Deon led Nick into the living room, the smaller man's hands in his own as he guided Nick to sit on the couch. The other man took the seat across from him, settling onto the coffee table. Deon stared straight into Nick's eyes, his hands still clutching Nick's. His hands were cold, clammy, a clear sign of unease.

"Nick, you know that apartment I rent with Craig, Victor and Ray, right? Well, you know those guys," _Not really, _Nick thought, "and you how much time I spend here. It just makes more sense for those guys to have a different roommate, one who's actually around, you know? I didn't think you would mind, I mean, we practically live together already, so…"

Nick sighed. "I'm not upset, I figured you would move in eventually." _A little warning would have been nice. _But he decided to cut the other some slack."If you would have told me sooner, I could have helped you pack," he said with a soft smile.

Deon's whole face lit up before he grabbed the side of Nick's head and kissed him deeply. "Great, absolutely fantastic. And you're in luck, I still have some boxes left in my car."

"Okay," Nick said, realizing a little too late he'd probably volunteered himself to Deon for the rest of the day. It wasn't really a problem, but he'd been planning on taking care of some things around the house he'd been meaning to get to. God knows Deon didn't do them.

It wasn't until later that night when Nick was taking a shower, washing away the sweat and dirt of the day, that he realized what the change truly entailed for him. Their relationship bordered on the rocky side already, and even though Nick truly wanted to work on it, if push came to shove, kicking Deon out would be difficult if the younger man didn't have a backup place to go. He knew that Deon and his parents didn't get along and from what he'd heard being screamed back and forth over the phone, he couldn't see Deon moving back home any time soon. Deon's sister, Dahlia, was nice, but she had her own life and her apartment didn't have a guest bedroom (which was mortifying in retrospect). He was sure Deon had plenty of friends with couches if push absolutely came to shove, but knowing Deon was essentially homeless made Nick feel responsible for his wellbeing.

But knowing all of that didn't change things; Nick fully realized that if Deon had come to him and told him he was homeless, presented the same situation, Nick would have let him move in even if he didn't think their relationship could be salvaged.

At the moment, he truly believed there was some hope for the two of them yet. He supposed he couldn't truly know until the cards were laid out on the table. But maybe this would be good for them. Deon would be officially moved in and since they were officially "dating" now, Deon had fewer reasons to be upset or suspicious of Nick or his other relationships.

Things could only get better from there on out.

* * *

"I swear on anything and everything holy, we have ghosts in this fucking place."

Deon's words caught Nick off guard. He glanced away from the TV and let the younger man's words run through his brain once more for further dissection. His assertion was so _utterly genuine_, Nick couldn't help but snort, the teasing look on his face making Deon flush angrily in return.

"I know you don't believe me, but I've seen things move around in the house and on top of that, sometimes they just disappear completely."

Of course Nick wanted to laugh, but he held it inside. It didn't take a ghost to lose something inside of a house as massive as theirs. Even though they'd managed to empty good portions of it, many of the rooms were still stacked to the ceiling full of things. And considering Nick was the only one who ever _cleaned _or _picked up things _around the house, the place wasn't exactly pristine. Misplacing things was hardly anything to write home about.

Nick supposed it was his own fault for Deon's fixation on the idea of the house being haunted. Ever since Nick had mentioned offhandedly to him the noose he'd found in the attic and his suspicions about the previous tenant's manner of death, Deon had focused on the paranormal as the root of their household troubles with earnest. Perhaps it was a matter of maturity. Eventually Deon would just have to admit that _perhaps _cleaning up once in a while would solve a few things.

"You're just being paranoid," Nick said calmly as he turned back to the television, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning.

"I'm not joking! Things disappear. _And_ I've even heard things moving around in the house when you're gone. On the second floor and even in the attic sometimes. Pretty creepy, don't you think?"

_Of course. The attic, _Nick thought as he rolled his eyes. _Pretty convenient all this happens when I'm gone. _

"Maybe you're on something. Drugs, perhaps?" Nick threw out there without much conviction, just as a joke. But something caught as a vein in Deon's forehead visibly throbbed, his entire face growing an angry red at Nick's tepid accusation.

"Screw. You," the younger man bit out between his teeth. "I'm telling you there's _ghosts _in our house and you won't even give me the benefit of the doubt? What sort of boyfriend are you? They could be demons or something equally as evil. We could be living in some sort of hell house, and you wouldn't even give a crap."

_Never took you for someone interested in the occult, _Nick thought as he ignored the familiar slam to his relationship qualities. _Next you'll be telling me it's the ghost or some demon making you treat me like shit. Grow the fuck up._

"Ghosts aren't _real, _Deon," he said clearly and pointedly, doing his best to remain even-tempered. If ghosts were real, he'd have seen or heard one in their house by then. He was a detective; he was _paid _to notice things. Besides, despite the weird, logic defying things he'd seen in his time as a Grimm, he was still pretty sure that ghosts were _not _real. Until he saw one, he was a firm believer that there was probably a logical explanation behind them - hell, maybe they were even misunderstood wesen.

But then again, he thought with doubt, he probably would have thought the same thing about wesen if someone had told him there were people who defied the basic laws of evolution and that stories like the Big Bad Wolf were based on true, historicalevents.

But that didn't change what he thought about the house. He still didn't believe there was a ghost haunting the place and certainly not a demon. All of this paranormal scare was a recent phenomenon. If Deon honestly thought the house was haunted (well, he obviously _did _believe the house was haunted, but if there was any substance to his beliefs), wouldn't he have said something two months ago? Sort of late to be preaching the old 'ghost in the rafters' bullcrap.

When Nick glanced away from the television, Deon was still glaring at him, his arms crossed. Nick shook his head and opened his mouth to repeat himself when Deon snapped, "Fine. Don't believe me. No one ever does," and exited the room in a flurry of anger. He left Nick alone in the living room, the roar of the television drowning out Nick's resulting loneliness and the sound of the floorboards above his head creaking, curiously far away from the staircase.

* * *

The violence from Deon seemed to be escalating recently, the younger man often critical over stupid, petty things. Who _was _this person, Nick wondered. He certainly wasn't the person Nick had met all those weeks ago. Nick thought changing himself, letting the other man move in, would at least help to better things, but the whole situation was in an even rougher patch than before. Even after Nick assented to calling their relationship a genuine one, Deon was still apt to fly off the handle for no reason in particular. Was it impossible for Deon to forgive Nick for his preoccupation with Monroe at the outset of their relationship?

Nick _was _trying hard to forget the older man despite what Deon might want to believe, but Monroe's memory lingered, was permanently re-etched into his mind every time Deon insulted him, hurt him, neglected him. Nick tried to repress his feelings, but the more Deon pushed Nick to resent him, the farther Nick receded into himself, falling deeper and deeper in love with a man he couldn't have. A man who he felt would never treat him the way Deon did. A man who had respected him once.

Nick didn't doubt Deon was at least _partially _aware of what was going on, perhaps even why he was so angry with Nick all of the time. He had a feeling it'd been a mistake to generously forgive Deon for everything he'd done up until that point. The first few days had been fine, better than fine even, but it didn't take long for Deon to slip back into his old self. There was some benefit to be had though; with every bruise brought a promise of reward, each one bigger and better than the last. Apology dinners, romantic evenings spent together, a promised weekend trip down to the beach. Nick realized every accepted gift essentially gave the younger man an excuse to never change and it was likely a mistake to sell himself short, but at the same time pain wasn't exactly an alien concept to him. Wasn't he getting hurt at work all the time? Honestly, what were a few extra bumps and bruises in the grand scheme of things? There were so many good things about Deon and their relationship to just throw it all out and start anew without even bothering to try to work things out.

But… deep down Nick _knew _Deon wouldn't really change, would probably always be short tempered and a little violent. It was unrealistic for Nick to hope differently and to assume that he could somehow temper the younger man's jagged edges, but… wasn't there at least _some _reason to keep trying and hoping for a better tomorrow? Maybe he could just learn to live with it.

* * *

It was late, both Nick and Deon tucked in bed when there was a sudden, unnaturally loud creak causing both of them to jolt to attention. They'd grown accustomed to the sounds the house made as it settled at night; what they'd heard was definitely _not _normal. It sounded like someone prying a locked window or a door open against the hinges, the metal screeching in resistance. Considering the house's history of vandals and juvenile delinquents, it wasn't hugely surprising. Deon had done a pretty good job up until that point chasing off the local kids, but there were bound to be a few who hadn't heard the news. Though it was probably a harmless kid, Nick still went for the gun hidden under his side of the mattress without hesitation. Though Deon didn't know about the gun, he still anticipated Nick attempting to leave the bedroom to investigate. His larger hand on Nick's arm stopped the smaller man from moving from the bed.

"You stay here. I'll go check," he whispered.

"Don't be ridiculous," Nick whispered back, his voice harsh. "You don't know what could be down there." Despite his suspicions, it was true. Nick never knew what to anticipate. Deon expected burglars at the worst, but Nick's fears were more ominous: Reapers and the like.

"Exactly," Deon agreed, though ignorantly. He pulled Nick flush against his chest and murmured in his ear, "I don't know what I'd do if anyone hurt you. Stay here."

His words were a bitter pill to Nick. No one hurt him the way Deon did every day, yet it wasn't something Nick could easily remind him of. Nagging him wouldn't make him act any kinder.

Nick moved away from Deon to attempt to stand again, but the grip on his arm tightened.

"I'm serious, Nick. Stay here."

Nick considered arguing, but relented and let Deon play the part of the hero. As he watched the younger man's bare back disappear through the doorway, a dark thought flickered through his mind causing a smirk to spread across his lips. Part of Nick hoped whatever was downstairs would put a few bullets through the younger man skull. It'd certainly solve a few of his problems. Nick would be sad of course, _devastated _even, which was far more emotion than he ever deserved from Nick.

He didn't _really _want the other man to die, but to see the Deon's ass handed to him wouldn't be entirely _un_welcome either.

* * *

It wasn't long before the younger man reappeared, a smug look on his face.

"Don't know who or what it was, but I chased them off," Deon announced as he approached the bed. Nick rolled his eyes as he turned onto his side to face away from Deon so they could resume spooning. Nick felt the bed dip as the other man crawled back under the covers and wrapped an arm around his middle. He firmly rested his face in the dip of Nick's neck and kissed the soft flesh there several times. "Just saved your life, babe," he murmured with a chuckle.

Nick rolled his eyes again, though the other man couldn't see it, which was probably a good thing. "What would I do without you?" Nick posed sarcastically.

"I'd hate to know."

Nick didn't know if he was being facetious or genuine. It was hard to know with him sometimes.

"Maybe it was your ghost," Nick teased, though he'd heard it too.

"Oh, shut up," Deon grunted. "Unless you're starting to believe me?"

Nick didn't comment, though he had to try really hard not to.

They'd been pretty close to falling asleep just moments before; Nick wanted to sleep, but the earlier excitement apparently woke something else in Deon.

"You're so pretty," he whispered into Nick's ear, his teeth nibbling around the edges. His hands worked at Nick's front, slipping under his shirt and stroking his chest.

"Knock it off," Nick complained, "you know I work early tomorrow."

"You work at 10:00, that's not early."

"It's almost 1:00 AM," Nick reasoned, finding anything to put the other man off. "If you keep me up all night, it will be."

Deon disregarded the shorter man's words completely as he slinked a leg between Nick's thighs anyway and began to rub his crotch against Nick's ass with vigor. Though it was bordering on a week since they'd really done anything, Nick wasn't the least bit interested. It was hard to feel excited when everything had become so routine. Deon was still an amazingly good lay considering, but sex was almost becoming more of a chore than a pleasure and it was hardly as exciting as it had been at the beginning. Honestly, Nick preferred those soft moments when Deon actually acted like he cared to lovemaking. It reminded Nick why he hadn't kicked the younger man out on his ass just yet.

"Deon, seriously. I'm tired."

"Let me just put it in, at least? I'll be quick. Just the tip?"

"I'm _tired. _No."

"Between your legs then? Come on. I just saved your life."

Nick snorted. _Hardly. _"Fine," he relented. He could live with that, especially if it shut the other man up and let him sleep.

He felt the mattress shift once more as Deon rummaged in the nightstand for some lotion and ditched his underwear. He hiked the legs of Nick's boxers up and smoothed some lotion against Nick's inner thighs. _Not even gonna bother with me? _Nick thought with irritation, but continued to keep his eyes on the wall ahead of him. When he felt Deon slide in between his legs, Nick jolted away.

"Use a condom, at least!"

"Why? I'm not _in you. _And you know I don't like the feel of them anyway… It's so much better this way," he said in a sly voice as he snuck a hand between Nick's legs, his fingers pushing the flesh apart, intent to continue.

Nick turned enough to glare at Deon. "Are _you _going to do the laundry then, 'cause last I checked, I'm the only person in this goddamn house who does anything around here."

"Jesus Christ," Deon growled as he pulled away and sat up. "I do plenty around here. Who helped you empty this fucking place? Gave up _weekends _to help you haul boxes and boxes full of shit, _just for you_?" He leaned back, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Nick straight on. "I know what this is. It's because of him, isn't it? I'll never be good enough for you… I'll always be second best. You'll never even give me a chance."

His words stung. Nick wasn't even sure how they got on the topic of Monroe in the first place. He wanted to combat Deon's accusation, argue it was the other man's own fault his thoughts lingered on Monroe. He wanted to say Monroe wasn't even the reason he was so upset, but he knew he'd never have to ask the blutbad twice to do anything, a frequent problem he ran into with Deon. Instead of bringing up any of these points, though, Nick fell silent.

But Deon _was _right. He would always be second best, but it wasn't Nick _or _Monroe's fault for that one.

"I would've done the laundry," Deon spat out over his shoulder as he swung his legs off of the side of the bed and pulled his shorts back on. The bed shifted as the taller man left for the door. The last thing he said before his back disappeared was, "You're such a frigid bitch, you know."

Nick's eyes stung; frustration, anger, and disappointment all boiling up inside of him. Part of him wanted to follow after the other man and just put a bullet through his brain out of exasperation for the whole situation, but he'd never do it in a million years. He knew Deon wasn't the only one making him feel the way he did. The person tromping down the staircase, the person still in the bed, he didn't particularly like either one of them.

The hard slam of the front door caused the panes in the bedroom windows to tremble.

It'd been awhile, but Nick needed it more than ever. He crawled out of bed, a hand swiping at his face angrily as he pulled the neglected body pillow out of closet. It was cold against his skin, but it was still something comforting to hold.

He fell asleep with it nestled in his arms. Eventually, hours later Nick felt the warm, familiar heat of Deon's body sliding into bed next to him, but he couldn't help but imagine the blutbad instead. A different pair of hands against his shoulders, down his arms and wrapping around his chest. The scrape of someone else's stubble against his neck. A different pair of lips ghosting over his spine. He could even imagine a different smell to go along with his fantasy.

"Monroe," Nick muttered in a stupid, dreamlike haze. He'd regret it in the morning, but for the moment he wanted this instead.

"_I love you, Nick," _Monroe replied in Nick's dream. _"I wish I'd told you sooner."_

* * *

The bed was empty by the time Nick woke and the other's Mazda had already disappeared from the driveway. Nick was pretty certain Deon's shift didn't start until late morning, but Nick was honestly still sort of miffed so he didn't particularly care. And he was back by the time Nick came home from work anyway, so it didn't matter.

Over the next several days, Deon punished Nick in the most passive-aggressive ways possible. He hardly spoke to him, wouldn't kiss him on the mouth and slept facing the opposite direction at night. Deon already tended to withhold his affection, it was almost unbearable now making Nick feel like he was the one in the wrong, not that Nick _didn't _blame himself at least partially. Despite his slurred, heavily sleepy state, it didn't justify him calling out Monroe's name _again_. He didn't even want to know what his count was at. At least he understood Deon's anger over that; he'd be pissed too. But it didn't change how lonely it felt. Nick was remorseful for that part at least, but why should he have to feel like shit for complaining about the other things? They were justified at least. It's not like he nagged a lot.

But Deon didn't seem to see it that way. To further his point, he didn't take out the trash, didn't sort the recycling, didn't do _anything _around the house. He just lazed around in his underwear and bitched to his friends loud enough for Nick to hear him. No matter which room Nick hid in to escape his harsh words, they chased him throughout the house. The only room Nic felt some solace in was his studio. It was the only room in the house Deon didn't like to go into because he couldn't abide the smell of fresh paints and turpentine. Nick was fine with that; any escape from Deon was welcome by that point. The younger man was acting far less charming than he had in the past. He was showing colors Nick wasn't sure he liked the shade of.

The longer Deon dragged out their fight, the more Nick began to wonder about the advantages to keeping Deon around at all. But every time Nick debated within himself, he was always left with an ambivalent answer. Empty-handed. A draw. A reason to wait until the next day to deal with it when he had the right words at his disposal. And the longer he waited, the crappier he felt. Why was it he'd rather keep Deon around to sate his sexual needs and fend off the loneliness than kick him out and start over with someone new? Someone potentially better? Why did he always become so attached? Deon hardly satisfied either of those two criteria anymore anyway. Was there a point to keeping him around at all?

* * *

Eventually they mended and made up, Deon even taking Nick out to dinner at a way too expensive restaurant as an apology. But the period of happiness they entered lasted only a day before Deon's temper reared its ugly head once more. His sudden changes in demeanor were never preceded by any obvious provocation and the younger man never chose to elucidate. The haze of alcohol always brought forth this person Nick didn't _want _to know in Deon. This angry, violent person he didn't particularly like. The stronger the violence, the more intense Nick's paintings seemed to feel. They were always so frenetic; a hazy mishmash of colors and emotion - anger, hatred, guilt and a tinge of trepidation. His fingernails always caked with paint; splotches spattering his face, his clothing, his arms. He churned out more and more paintings than he thought possible and somehow they continued to sell for insane amounts. He didn't care about the money anymore, hardly bothered to cash his checks. What did any of it matter anyway? Everyone enjoyed his misery; his pain.

_Very well_, he thought; he had lots to spare for those sadists anyway.

* * *

Deon was useless. Completely and utterly useless. Even the sex, which had been his one saving grace, was tedious. Deon never liked to switch it up. Nick was always the bottom. Every time Nick asked about it, Deon gave some lame excuse.

'_I'm in the peak of my sexual virility, why waste it being a bottom?' _

'_I'm too tall; it'd be awkward.' _

'_I've never bottomed before; it would be too uncomfortable.'_

But he didn't seem to care how uncomfortable it was for Nick those times Deon just wanted a quickie and didn't give a crap if Nick was properly prepared or even ready. Deon only cared about himself. He didn't even try anymore; the sex was rarely punctuated with kisses or other tender moments. Sometimes he didn't even bother with Nick at all. As time went on, Deon seemingly preferred not facing Nick at all; Nick supposed it was an excuse for the lack of romance.

The farther Nick pushed the issue, the more violent Deon would become and the harder he would drink. Nick was pressing his luck by pestering the other man, but Nick wasn't one to give up when he wanted something. Eventually Deon would have to accept that Nick could be just as stubborn as him.

* * *

Nick was surprised he noticed as quickly as he did since he wasn't pointedly trying to look for anything odd or out of place. In the foyer by the front door stood an antique table where Nick kept the dried bouquet of roses "Monroe" had given him in a green, 50's style ceramic vase. His stomach clenched and churned when he noticed it missing, not even a few petals left behind. Nick immediately had his suspicions as he stalked out to the garage where they kept the garbage cans during the week. What exactly drove Nick to literally dig through bags of rancid trash to find his flowers; he wondered if it wasn't hatred.

* * *

"The one time you bother to take out the garbage is when you toss out my flowers?" Nick demanded as he stomped into the living room, the door slamming against its frame. Deon was standing in the adjoining kitchen, grocery bags under his arms. Even while ignoring the look on the younger man's face, Nick knew how bitchy and whiny his tone was; he was almost too pissed to care though.

"Whoa, whoa! Calm down. It was an accident, alright?" Deon quickly replied, his temper even and his voice almost desperate to explain. But Nick couldn't stop himself.

"Yeah, I bet it was," he snapped back immediately.

When he found the flowers, they weren't even close to being near the top of the garbage can, denoting a certain level of shame. They had been absolutely covered with coffee grounds and piles of rotten food even though just that morning, the bouquet had been fine. The level of contamination and the fact that not a single rose could be salvaged suggested a more resentful intention.

"Really? _Really? _We're gonna do this now?" Deon demanded angrily, "'Cause I just went out and bought stuff to make a really nice dinner for you, _and, _what's this?" Deon asked sarcastically as he pulled out a bouquet of red roses hidden in a paper grocery bag. "Wow, I'm such a dick boyfriend, huh? I _accidentally _knock over your _precious vase of flowers from you ex-boyfriend _and don't even _try _to make up for it? Give me the award for worst boyfriend of the year, 'cause I obviously deserve it!"

Nick stood in silence and watched Deon slam the groceries around for awhile, banging cupboard doors and almost breaking a jar of mayonnaise on the ground in his angry haste.

"I'm sorry," Nick said somewhat quietly, even though he wasn't sure he was entirely in the wrong. But he did feel guilty the more he thought about it. Deon wasn't the best boyfriend, but he had nothing on some of those guys Nick had dealt with in the past on domestic disturbance calls during his patrolling days.

Understanding Deon's point of view certainly didn't make Nick feel any better either. If he was in Deon's shoes and his partner had remained sentimental over an ex-boyfriend, he'd probably be just as bothered as Deon was now. And perhaps Deon hadn't meant anything by throwing the flowers away; maybe he'd even done it to prevent upsetting Nick further.

It was hard to admit even to himself, but _he _was the asshole in the situation.

Even yet, despite the apology, Deon wasn't finished. He wanted to keep pressing the issue. He wanted the full blown fight. And the guilt trip. He was so good at those.

"You know, if you never give me a chance, how is this," he gestured between them, "ever going to improve?"

Nick narrowed his eyes, his guilt dissipating because, _of course! _it was Nick's fault again. How surprising! He was tired of being blamed for every short coming in their relationship; he wasn't the _only _one doing things wrong. He thought about telling Deon that Hank had seen the bruises, something he'd failed to mention earlier, but thought better of it. Deon would probably turn it back on him and accuse him of sleeping with Hank again since most of the bruises were under his clothing.

Fighting, fighting. It seemed like all they ever did was fight. Snippety comments here, biting comments there. Why couldn't they be normal like they'd been before? What had changed so drastically? Deon's drinking had gotten worse, even when Nick told him specifically that he didn't want him to bring alcohol into the house anymore. Did Nick do something horrific? What could he have possibly done that was so bad?

"'Improve?'" Nick yelled. "It's not _my _fault. Why don't _you _stop drinking? You're always worse when you drink."

"I only drink because my _boyfriend _has a tiring habit of calling out other men's names while I'm fucking him. And what do you know, that just so happens to bother me."

Nick's whole face burned. "Maybe if you weren't such an asshole…" he muttered without thinking.

"Me? Ha! If you don't like it, why don't you go back to your ex, then? Oh wait, that's right. He doesn't _want _you back, does he?"

It was true, but Nick didn't want to hear it, especially not from Deon. Instead of giving in, Nick retorted, "Monroe would never pull half the shit you do."

"I've never _once _hit you! You act like I treat you horribly! I _buy _you things, I spend time with you, take you out to eat, make you dinner… _What do you want me to do?!_"

The painful thing was… it was all true, so why couldn't Nick just be happy with the younger man? Was he just not trying hard enough on his end? Was Deon getting bored of him? When he thought about it, it was true that he'd gotten used to Deon babying him and had gotten out of the habit of trying to be romantic. Maybe his misery was his own fault..?

No, no, _no! _He was not going to let Deon play these crazy mind games with him anymore!

But, but, _but. _Things had been so good between them until Nick had called out Monroe's name that first time. And the interviews. And the obvious lingering feelings for the older man.

Maybe it _was _his fault. So didn't he deserve at least some of the strife he got? But he'd never treat Juliette the way Deon treated him; would never purposely harm her. But at the same time, he'd never really been jealous and had never had to worry if she was sneaking around on him.

Nick was so utterly confused. Was this normal? Was this… okay?

"I'm sorry," Nick said, genuinely meaning it. "I haven't been fair to you. I shouldn't be comparing you to someone else."

Though it was hard not to sometimes. But would Monroe have hurt him too? Would other men? Were men just like that, more jealous and violent towards other men because they could 'handle it?' Was he,himself,like that deep down inside? Nick wished he had someone, _anyone_, he could ask. Maybe he was just making a mountain out of a mole hill. Maybe he would have known if he'd dated other men before Deon instead of just having one night stands.

Apparently Nick had found the magic words because Deon's shoulders slumped and he smiled that gorgeous, loveable smile that had made Nick fall prey to his spell in the first place. The younger man walked around the kitchen island and wrapped Nick up in his arms in a tight hug drawing Nick back to that place he'd longed to be for too long.

"I forgive you," he murmured into Nick's hair, his voice sweet and soft. "You know I love you, you just drive me crazy sometimes."

"I'm sorry. I'll try harder not to," Nick said honestly, meaning every word of it.

"Okay. Me too."

"Can we just… start over?" Nick blurted. "Completely? I'm sorry about how I've been treating you. And I'm sorry about Monroe. I'm a jerk. Can we just start everything over again right now? Can we pretend we're only just getting to know each other? I promise I'll never do any of that again. I promise to be good to you, like you've tried to be good to me."

Deon squeezed him tighter; his voice actually catching in his throat when he said, "Of course. Yes, yes, oh god yes, let's start over. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Nick wondered if Deon would cry, so overwhelmed with emotion. He smiled as he comforted the taller man, feeling for once that he'd managed to fix everything between them finally.

* * *

They'd reentered the honeymoon phase of their relationship again and things couldn't be better. Deon was willing to put Nick's mental infidelities behind him while Nick was willing to forgive Deon his past violence. They were both now making an effort to be more romantic and Deon hadn't had a drink in three days. The younger man was also making a greater effort to help around the house and had even cleaned the bedroom and the kitchen. That night he'd made Nick a fancy dinner, had cuddled him on the couch and had bathed him in kisses and soft touches. When they eventually made it up to the bedroom, Nick was seriously rethinking any desires to cut the younger man loose. If things could be this good again, he was foolish to let him go.

They were just in the middle of messing around, Nick feeling exceptionally happy, something he hadn't felt in awhile, when Nick made the mistake of being too forward. When Nick, without much thought, slid his hand down Deon's ass, his finger attempting to tease at the other's asshole, Deon freaked and slammed Nick backwards against the headboard. Taken by surprise, Nick tried to grab at the end table only to slide off of the bed and land hard on his side.

"Shit," Nick bit out, his body singing with pain. Deon came back to himself then, his face graying.

"Nick, _fuck_. Are you okay?" he asked frantically as he reached down to help Nick up. Nick brushed off the help as he sat up on his own accord.

It wasn't like it was the first time he'd been shoved, but Deon had never _truly _hurt him during sex before. It was the one designated safe time they always had. It was the only time Nick could be absolutely certain Deon wouldn't try to hurt him.

When Deon reached out again to comfort Nick, completely genuine, Nick recoiled.

"Don't touch me. Just… get out."

Deon didn't fight it for once; didn't argue. He just got up and left.

Two hours later he returned; he'd broken his fast and his breath reeked of alcohol, his demeanor even worse than when he'd left. He was drunk, something Nick had hoped to be rid of, but instead of violence, there was something more sickly breeding behind his heart that night. He eventually slid into the bed behind Nick and wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist, attempting to rekindle the loving mood from earlier. Nick was far too tired to fight him off and just let the other man do as he wanted. His heart just ached; he thought things would be different.

Deon didn't say anything for a long time. The uneven puffs of sour air on Nick's cheek let him know the other man was still awake, hadn't succumbed to slumber. Eventually, Deon spoke:

"You're the only good thing that's ever happened in my life," he murmured softly against Nick's hair. "Why're you so good to me? I'm such a worthless piece a shit. A terrible boyfriend. Why d'you even bother with me?" He pulled away enough to let his lips ghost over Nick's still tender shoulder blades. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear. I'm just so _stupid _sometimes."

When he pressed into Nick again, the Grimm could feel hot tears on the back of his neck.

"You're too good for me. What do you see in a loser like me?"

Nick lay in silence, unsure of what to say or whether or not he wanted to comfort Deon at all. He was trying, oh god was he trying, to be a decent boyfriend, but he feared it was impossible.

"Please give me another chance," Deon mumbled, this voice thick with emotion. "I don't think I could live without you." He was silent for a moment before he said, "I don't want to live without you."

Something cold and rotten writhed inside of his stomach like snakes. The firm hand sneaking down his arm, the fingers winding around his wrist like a shackle, something was so utterly _wrong _inside of Deon that it terrified Nick for the first time that he could remember.

* * *

"Hey, you up for drinks tonight?" Hank asked as Nick was grabbing his coat and getting ready to head home for the night. "Some of the guys were talking about hitting the pub."

"I don't know…" Nick hesitated.

"Okay. Well, we could go just you and me, then. Grab a bite to eat and a few drinks."

"I'd love to, but I really can't," Nick replied quickly. "Not tonight."

Or any night really. The inevitable fight with Deon wasn't worth the trouble even though Nick genuinely missed relaxing with Hank and some of their other coworkers after a long day's work. And after Deon's drunken admission the night before, Nick was honestly afraid of leaving him alone for too long.

"You know," Hank started slowly, that familiar glint in his eye, "I can't remember the last time we actually went out and did anything besides lunch." His eyes narrowed as though he might be on to something. "Almost sounds like you've got yourself a jealous girlfriend."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you," Nick replied quickly, "but I don't, not to sound like a bleeding heart though."

"So what is it? Dinner with Monroe?"

"What?! _No. _Not even close."

"Then what is it?"

Nick hesitated again, unwilling to even start down that road. "I… I just can't tonight. Sorry, Hank."

Hank didn't reply immediately. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, his eyes never leaving Nick's face, he said, "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? And you can always call me."

"Of course," Nick said, his voice level though his eyes burned a little with unexpected emotion.

"You still have the keys to my house, right? You can stay there whenever you need to, okay? Don't ever hesitate."

"You're worrying too much."

"I'd do anything for a friend. And you should know that."

"Thanks, Hank," Nick said as he slapped his partner on the shoulder and gave him the brightest grin he could manage. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

Deon wasn't even home when Nick got there. It frustrated him to know he would be spending the next several hours alone waiting for the other man, likely to be yelled at for his troubles in the end. Or maybe he'd be sweet. Nick could never anticipate what the night would bring. Nick had learned early on that Deon was often meaner on days when he worked versus days where he spent the majority of the time at home playing video games. And those few times he had to see his family he was the absolute worst. Thankfully there was little contact between them after Deon had been cut off financially. It was unfortunate that Deon happened to work for his stepfather - the only job he could easily land after an assault charge - which was probably why work was so stressful for him. Deon never told Nick exactly _why _they didn't get on, but Nick had a feeling it had to do with the lost scholarship. Shattered expectations, all that petty crap.

Almost three hours later, Nick heard Deon's car pull up the drive and the unavoidable click of keys in the lock. His stomach immediately churned at the familiar sound. When Deon entered the kitchen and approached Nick from behind, Nick's whole body tensed as he awaited some impending conflict. He found himself unconsciously placing a hand over what was left of his sandwich as though to hide it, but the other man saw anyway.

"Hey, you're sure eating a lot," the taller man commented as he sidled up behind Nick and wrapped a hand around the smaller man's stomach, pressing lightly. He nuzzled his nose into Nick's neck, attempting to recapture what they had a few days ago. Nick shifted a little under his weight, the bruise on his back from the other night still exceptionally tender. "Better be careful," Deon teased in his ear. It wasn't entirely clear what he meant, but Nick had a feeling.

_Or what? I'll get fat? _Nick thought as he picked at a few crumbs on his plate. He wanted to laugh bitterly. Nick was still far skinnier than he normally should be; he wondered how a sandwich (okay, it was a decently _large _sandwich) and a can of soup could possibly make him fat.

Deon leaned into him again, a hand trailing down Nick's shoulder to rest against his forearm, his fingers pressing into old, yellowed flesh. Nick's appetite fled immediately at the touch, leaving him feeling empty and cold despite the heat of the man flush against his back.

_Do you get off on this? _he wondered with irritation. He was almost afraid to know.

* * *

Later that night as Nick was changing for bed, Deon brought up the issue yet again.

"_Did_ you gain weight?" he asked pointedly as he gestured towards the other man's body.

Nick looked down at his stomach before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He _had _gained some weight, but surely it wasn't _that _noticeable.

"I don't think so," Nick lied, his eyes immediately on the wall as he tugged a thick sweatshirt over his head despite the season. Deon was on him immediately, hands slipping under the thick material, fingers pinching at any fat they could find. It hurt more than it tickled; was this man incapable of tenderness?

"Is it a problem if I gained some weight?" Nick challenged as he wormed his way out of Deon's grasp. _Are you trying to give me an eating disorder or something? How screwed up do you want me to be? _Nick wanted to say every time Deon mentioned his weight like it was a problem for a completely different reason than why it actually was.

The other man hesitated, his eyes round with surprise. "No, of course not," he quickly reassured. And he did sound honest, almost offended that Nick would think so low of him. Maybe Nick just misunderstood his intentions.

"I just think you're perfect the way you are," Deon continued as he crossed the room and stood behind Nick. "Absolutely gorgeous. Don't go changing on me."

His words came out in that honey-sweet voice of his, dripping with charm. Somehow Nick found it intoxicating to hear the other man's desire. Deon hadn't complimented him in awhile. Deon topped his words with a deep kiss and carried Nick towards their bed, dropping him the last foot or so to fall against the mattress. Nick's stomach fluttered for an entirely different reason and he couldn't help but wonder why he was letting himself feel the way he did for someone he knew was no good. Someone who was screwed up way beyond what he could ever hope to fix.

Why couldn't he just say no to the younger man? Why did he continuously forgive him? He didn't want to love this person.

It was wrong of him, so wrong, but the only way he knew to protect his heart was imagining someone else in Deon's stead. He closed his eyes and pretended it was Monroe's hands on his body and the older man's lips against his neck, reminding him eerily of the dream he'd had nights before.

* * *

"I can't tell you how sorry I am for shoving you last night," Deon said as they lay together later. It was late and Nick wanted to sleep; he didn't want to have this conversation. Either Deon would apologize or things would somehow disintegrate into another fight between them. Nick held his breath as the other man continued to speak.

"I was thinking of getting you something nice to show you how sorry I am. What would you like?"

Nick shrugged; he wasn't sure _what _he wanted anymore. And so much for starting their relationship over again, he thought. He was already fantasizing about Monroe again and Deon was just the same as before. Violent, insulting, lazy; there really wasn't much point staying together, especially when the sex wasn't even that good either. Deon had tried to be sweeter, but that chemistry they had originally just wasn't there anymore.

"Whatever you want, I'll get it for you. You want a new car? I'll get you a new car. Whatever you want, baby, I'll get it for you."

"How do you expect to pay for a new car if you got kicked out of your apartment because you couldn't pay the rent." His voice was derisive, but apparently the other man didn't quite catch his tone.

"No one kicked me out," Deon laughed. "I just didn't have a _reason _to pay the rent since I was never there anyway. And I can just ask my step-dad for the money if I really need to. So is that what you want? A new car?"

"No, I -" _I want you to treat me better. I want you stop being an asshole to me. Actually, I just want a new boyfriend._

He couldn't say any of that, but he did think of something.

"I want you to tell me why you shoved me like that."

Deon hesitated. "What?"

Nick flipped over to lay on his other side and looked at Deon seriously. "I want to know why you freaked out like that. Did something happen to you as a kid? Were you molested or something?"

Deon sat back with a horrified look on his face; one that quickly changed into anger. "That's disgusting! I can't believe… _What the hell is wrong with you_?"

"What? I thought it was a pretty decent conclusion," Nick said slowly. Was this one of those moments where he was unknowingly trampling the lines of social decency? _Was _there a better way to voice his concerns? He thought he _was _being empathetic… "You freaked out when I touched you. I wondered if maybe…"

"No! _Jesus_. What a messed up thing to ask a guy! I told you, I don't bottom. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

Nick glared before he said hotly, "I'm always the bottom. Why can't we switch sometimes? You might even like it." Nick didn't even bother asking why they couldn't forego the penetration altogether in favor of other things some nights, but that was already a lost cause. Deon was aggravatingly habitual.

"I wouldn't like it."

"Why, because you're such a control freak?"

"No, 'cause I just, I just wouldn't, alright?"

"Whatever," Nick grumbled as he rolled over to face away from Deon again; he shook off Deon's resulting attempt to comfort him. They were both silent for a long time until Nick said, "I want to break up."

"Why? Because I won't bottom?" Deon asked quickly, his voice pathetically sad. Nick was startled when the other man started to cry. "You'd break up with me for _that_?

"I love you, Nick. Please, _please_ don't break up with me. I'll try, we can try… I'll try to be the bottom. I've been trying to be so much better. Why isn't that good enough for you…?"

Nick wouldn't comfort him; maybe that was cruel, but he sort of liked knowing Deon was suffering too.

* * *

It was clear his break up with Deon was imminent the night Nick purposely made Deon cry. Nick never pictured himself as a master at mind manipulation or cutting remarks, but perhaps his growing hatred of wasting his time on someone like Deon gave more weight and bite to his insults.

Deon was already upset when he arrived home earlier that night; he was drunk on top of that. From what Nick could pry out of him, he'd had a performance review earlier that afternoon and his stepfather had conducted it personally, and according to Deon's dumbass twenty-three year old logic, getting smashed and driving home drunk was the best solution. Nick was none too pleased. He realized Deon had enough problems without his family trying to keep him under their thumb all of the time, but purposely putting others in danger because he was too much of a coward to deal with his own problems rubbed Nick in all the wrong ways. The moment Deon walked through the door stinking like the bar, Nick started in on him for anything and everything he could think of. Failing to do the dishes for the fourth day in a row, forgetting to start the laundry on his way out, _driving home instead of calling for a ride_. The longer Deon remained reluctant to defend himself, the stronger Nick's temper grew until he was practically snarling insults at the taller man, watching as the other seemed to shrink right in front of his eyes. When the other finally collapsed onto the couch and began to sob hysterically, something inside of Nick he'd never known before was brought forth with a vengeance:

Cruelty.

As he watched the huge, blubbering mess of a person break down in front of him, he knew in his heart that he didn't feel an ounce of pity. He actually _derived _a sick sort of pleasure from it. Nick didn't need any more proof; he knew their relationship was wholly doomed and irreparable in that moment. Normally Nick never, _ever, _enjoyed a partner's misery, no matter _how _angry they made him; he _never _wanted them to suffer. It was part of being in love with them. But Deon… Nick wanted him to suffer. And this desire to mutually abuse each other, Nick knew he couldn't live this way anymore.

As Nick was opening his mouth to tell Deon he wanted to break up again, the other screamed, "Why don't you come out and say it then?! Tell me I'm a fucking loser! Tell me I'm a worthless piece of shit that can't do anything right!"

Nick blinked before taking a step back. It was something he _longed_ to say, but he wouldn't. He had a shred of decency left inside of his heart to let that dog lie where it was. Sure, he wanted to rip Deon down bare without mercy, but he knew he shouldn't.

But when Nick turned away, unwilling to continue down that particular path of psycho-sadistic bullshit, Deon grabbed Nick roughly by the arm and shook him, screaming again.

"Say it! I know you're thinking it, just fucking say it!"

"Fine," Nick yelled back, finally succumbing to his long pent up rage. "I wish you were dead! Is that what you want me to say, 'cause I'll say it again!" Nick threatened. "Why couldn't you have just crashed your car and died?! I wish you'd stop coming home and just leave me the hell alone!"

The words kept echoing in his ears; the resulting silence unbearable. Deon just gaped up at Nick with wide, rounded eyes looking too much like a beaten child. Was he angry? Heartbroken? Nick expected to be hit, something, maybe they'd finally have it out and Nick would have a means of escaping this relationship for good, but the other man just crumpled to the floor, his face buried in the detective's sweatshirt. Nick could feel hot tears soaking through to the skin of his stomach. It was a horrible, horrible feeling. And he did feel pity then, and disgust in himself. He was too human, _too good_ not to feel those things. He couldn't stop himself from brushing a gentle hand through Deon's hair, smoothing a few loose locks behind his ear.

"It's not true, I swear it's not true," Nick murmured softly, reassuringly. "I don't wish you were dead. I'd die if something happened to you." It wasn't necessarily true, but what could another lie hurt?

Nick couldn't carry on this way anymore, but he wasn't sure what to do. Deon was homeless and so completely unbalanced mentally. His friends might take him back, his family might step up, or he might hear about Deon's dead body turning up in the Columbia somewhere, took his life or something, and the police officer in him, the _good person_ in him couldn't let that happen. He hated Deon, oh _god _did he hate him, but part of him loved him too and feared that very outcome.

He couldn't keep Deon at the house anymore, but how could Nick broach the idea of a serious psychiatric evaluation? He doubted Deon would welcome the suggestion with open arms. For now he'd drag Deon to bed and make him sleep off the alcohol and the misery. In the morning he'd look into some treatment programs, interventions, something. Maybe he'd even call Deon's sister (if he could get the number out of Deon) and figure out something. Anything to prevent the worst from happening.

* * *

The next day, Nick was left at a loss. He had no idea what to search for in terms of help for Deon. Deon wasn't addicted to anything (that he knew of, though he was starting to have his suspicions) and he wasn't quite sure if Deon qualified as suicidal or not. He wondered if Deon might be bi-polar, but even that he had no means of judgment. AA might be a place to start since the younger man had a growing problem with alcohol, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to get him to go.

Nick was relieved when Hank asked, "Want to get lunch?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

* * *

Neither Hank nor Nick could quite agree on where to eat - Hank wanted Mexican, Nick a burger - so they ended up hitting a few food carts and eating in Hank's car. Nick was looking forward to a few minutes of peace and Deon-free thoughts, but unfortunately Hank was back to playing detective again where it concerned Nick's personal life.

"Dean's not eating you out of house and home, is he?" Hank asked right as Nick took a massive bite of his double cheeseburger. Nick stared at Hank as he chewed, thinking through his words before he swallowed.

"Dean..? Oh, you mean Deon?" Nick said slowly. "No, I'm just not good with cooking. Starting to get sick of fried eggs and turkey sandwiches all of the time. I'm surprised you remembered his name for the most part."

"You show up to work covered in bruises and there's some strange guy I've never met before living with you. Of course I'm going to remember something like that."

"Sorry, _dad_, I'll make sure to introduce you next time. Has anyone ever told you you're paranoid?"

"Yes. Every one of my ex-wives. But still, who is this kid?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's his last name? You _did _run a background check on him though, right? Before you let him move in..?"

Nick blinked as the words sunk in. Why hadn't he? He'd done so for every one of his previous girlfriends. Sometimes, if he knew their names, he'd even look up one night stands, just in case. It was almost habitual. Was it because he'd dated Juliette for so long that he'd forgotten? He probably wouldn't be riding this sinking ship if he'd looked Deon up. Seeing his assault charges - which he'd thought to be bullshit until recently - would have clued him in that this was not a guy he wanted to spend valuable time with. Nick was honestly surprised (and disappointed) it'd taken until Hank's suggestion to remind him of something so obvious.

"Well..?" Hank asked, a brow raised.

Nick bowed his head in embarrassment when he finally had to admit to his oversight. Hank wasn't pleased, but Nick was a big boy. There might be an age difference between them, but it wasn't so steep to deserve such admonishment as though Nick was a child incapable of making his own decisions. He might have made a few missteps with Deon, but Hank's nosing into his business wasn't necessarily helpful. He'd deal with Deon on his own terms.

* * *

When Deon was occupied in the kitchen making dinner later that night, Nick slipped Deon's license out from the dingy brown wallet laying completely vulnerable on the fireplace mantle. Nick quickly memorized the man's middle and last name and date of birth before he slipped it back as though nothing had happened. He'd already known Deon's last name, well, more or less. It was Polish, so it wasn't a really common name to him. He could barely pronounce it, so he rarely bothered to and spelling it was beyond him.

The next day when Nick was at work, Hank off checking some things in evidence, he typed Deon's full name into the database and waited for a profile to appear. He was saddened, but not surprised by what came up. Two counts of assault (the high school fight, he assumed), several incidences of domestic violence (totally no surprise there), no charges (which _was _surprising), other incidences of fighting and harassment. The worst and the one that made Nick's stomach drop out from under him was the dropped sexual assault charges. What the hell did that mean, he wondered. Had Deon… raped someone? Attempted to? It wasn't sexual 'harassment,' but 'assault.' Harassment would cover lewd, drunken flirtations towards a straight guy. But assault…?

Nick was having a hard time wrapping his mind around it. It was there, written in black type so clean and clear, yet he didn't want to see it.

He had to leave, had to break up. He couldn't chance something. He doubted Deon could ever one-up him; he was a trained police officer (and a Grimm) so he wasn't entirely worried, but his own reputation was at stake staying with someone so criminally violent. He didn't want anyone to know he was dating a man, but even just associating amicably with Deon made him look slightly crooked.

Nick anxiously perused the files of evidence from the fight that had lost Deon's his scholarship. He felt sick to his stomach when he looked at the pictures taken of the two guys involved. They were hardly recognizable through the damage done to their faces. Broken bones, one beaten to unconsciousness. Deon looked too clean in his mug shot for the other guys to have gotten much in by the way of swings. He looked ragged, but nothing even close. It wasn't self-defense; how could it be? Nick knew it was done out of vengeance, hate. The same feeling hinted at every time he grabbed Nick hard by his arms, his wrists, his nails biting into Nick's skin. A need to control and dominate.

Nick sighed as he closed the window and sat back in his chair. He ran his hands through his hair as he tried to think of how he would end things between them. If Deon was in a good mood, he'd cry. If he was in a violent one, Nick didn't know where it would go. Deon was still essentially homeless, but he had his car and his sister seemed nice enough to let him crash there for a week until he could figure it out.

He just hoped Deon wouldn't threaten to kill himself; Nick wouldn't know what to do then except to call the police or incapacitate him. Either/or, it'd make for a shitty night.

* * *

Deon was in a decent mood, even greeted Nick with a nice dinner. Nick could tell things were going in a more romantic route for the evening, so he decided it would be better to postpone things for one more night. Nick didn't work until later the next day, and it was Deon's day off, so it would be better timing.

But as usual, it didn't take long for the evening to escalate into an argument - Deon already three beers in - so Nick left Deon to his video games and self-loathing and went upstairs to take a bath. He needed a breather away from the other man and a long, hot soak in the tub sounded like just the thing. Baths were something he rarely indulged in, normally too impatient, but it'd been a long week, _a long month_, and crawling into the claw toed bathtub in the master bath was irresistible. He sunk into the searing hot water, up to his nose, and just let all the thoughts and worries flow out of him.

Looking at his skin, at the faded bruises, a few recent, and knowing that by the next day he'd be rid of Deon, it was a bittersweet thought. Despite everything, he'd unfortunately developed some degree of feelings for the violent younger man and every time he told Nick he loved him, even if it was just a lie - he knew it wasn't - it made his heart ache with happiness. He hated his own heart. It betrayed his own better judgment. Loving Deon, even partially, was probably the worst mistake he'd made in a long time. Once Deon was out of the picture, he'd be alone again. Soon it'd be the body pillow again as his only nighttime comfort. The house would be so lonely; it was too goddamned big. Another oversight. What was he thinking buying such a huge house? He'd have to get a dog, or a cat. Hell, a hamster. Something to keep him company once Deon was packed and gone.

For a moment, he missed Rosalee. Missing Monroe was a constant, familiar pang; missing the Fuchsbau as intensely as he did in that moment was sort of weird, but understandable. He hadn't seen her since the gallery opening, his free time devoted almost entirely to Deon. Rosalee understood him. Maybe she knew of some sweet wesen girl he could date (as long as she didn't woge during sex, he was okay with it). Maybe he'd call her tomorrow, ask her out to coffee or something just to catch up. He didn't want to trample on Monroe's toes by asking out his girlfriend (though the older man's avoidance of him still irritated him). _Whatever_, he thought, _Rosalee's my friend too_.

Almost a half hour later, clad in only his sweats, Nick was still toweling his damp hair dry when he entered the living room and found Deon pacing, his shoulders hunched and tense. Nick's stomach churned immediately at the sight, unsure of what to expect when everything up until that moment had been going relatively normally. What could have possibly changed in the time Nick was upstairs?

"Deon..?"

Deon turned to glared at him, his face just mirroring intense disgust for Nick's very presence.

"So," Deon growled, "care to tell me how long you've been _fucking around _with your ex?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Nick asked as he threw his towel onto the back of a chair. He crossed his arms as he leaned into it, his whole body tensing for the impending conflict.

"Monroe."

Nick was going to be honest for once with Deon about Monroe. It was probably too late, but it still might be worth saying.

"He was always just a friend. He was never my ex. Honestly."

"That's utter bullshit!" the other man yelled. "I know he's your ex! You're always saying he is!" Which was true. And when Nick failed to answer immediately, trying to think of a way to convince Deon or whether or not he should even bother, Deon screamed, "You're always calling out his name when I'm balls deep in you! I'd think you'd at least have the decency to think of me when we're fucking!"

"I'm _not _cheating on you," Nick ground out between his teeth. And under his breath he muttered, "Even though you probably deserve it."

"But you're cheating on me in your mind! That's still cheating!"

"So what? I'd rather Monroe fuck me than you. Thinking of him is the only way I get off anymore."

It was the wrong thing to say and Nick knew it immediately when he saw the change in Deon's eyes. This was the fight Nick had been waiting for; their break up fight.

"You'll only think of me," Deon snapped back as he crossed the living room to where Nick was standing, shifting Nick automatically onto the defensive. It was impossible now to ignore the stench of alcohol on Deon's breath with the other man standing so close. Nick had only been gone for a half hour tops; how many had he managed to slam back in that time?

"You're drunk," Nick said gently in a calm, even tone. "Let's talk about this tomorrow."

Though Nick had been anticipating this moment for weeks, he wasn't entirely in the mood to fight. He'd rather do it in the morning, especially when he was going to kick Deon out for good. At least it'd give Deon some time to find a place to go. If Nick could just get Deon to bed, he'd calm down. He'd be pretty much back to normal by morning and then perhaps they could have a decently mature conversation. Not likely, but it would be better than trying to reason with this drunk.

"No, we're talking about it _now_," Deon growled back, not the least bit keen to listen to Nick's reasoning. "I put my all into this relationship and you go fuck around with other guys?!"

"We _never _agreed to monogamy. You can sleep with whoever you want, I never said you couldn't."

"But I'm _not _sleeping with anyone else, I'm sleeping with you. If I ever meet this bastard Monroe, he'll be lucky to walk away alive-"

Nick crossed the distance between them in a split second, stabbing a finger into Deon's chest. "You wouldn't last a minute against him; he'd rip you to absolute shreds."

Deon didn't reply, just stood there in seething silence. Nick let out a heavy sigh.

"You can sleep on the couch tonight." If Deon wasn't drunk, Nick would ask him to leave immediately, but he had a responsibility to others not to let this asshole drive. He'd probably end up killing someone, sparing himself.

When Nick began to walk away, Deon grabbed him by the arm and spun him around, backing him up several steps to press him against the wall.

"You never seem to like calling out _my _name when we fuck. Maybe I should make sure you never forget it," he sneered into Nick's ear, his face far too close, a touch of malicious humor to his voice. "Make you scream it out 'til I'm the only face you remember. God knows I've tried to be good to you. To do this the right way."

Nick laughed, not the least bit fazed by Deon's threats or the grip on his arm. It was nothing he wasn't used to. Nothing he couldn't shake off. "Shame I've already forgotten it, you prick."

The tightening grip on his arm made Nick actually suck in an inaudible gasp between his teeth.

"I dare you to say that again. Say my name, _bitch_!" Deon snarled, grabbing Nick's other arm and slamming Nick's front against the wall in the same second.

"Asshole," Nick bit out under his breath feeling insanely pissed off, images of Deon's bloody, mangled body flickering through before his eyes. It was hard not to let go of himself, send this loser straight to hell in a body bag. After everything he'd suffered from this man, he wasn't sure he could stop himself from killing the other with his bare hands.

Deon, completely unaware of Nick's thoughts, grabbed Nick by his hair, grinding his skull into the wall. "Don't make me say it again," he growled. "What's my name, bitch?!"

"Get off me," Nick threatened again, his irritation growing exponentially as his vision swam with red. "You're putting me in a really bad mood right now, so I'm warning you…"

"And what could you possibly do?" the other laughed. "You're not very smart if you think you can take me. You're not even in the same league. And don't even think about calling for help, no one would hear you scream all the way out here. I could snap your little arm right now and no one would be the wiser," he cautioned, thoroughly enjoying Nick's position by the tone of his voice. As though to prove his point, he yanked Nick's arm backwards until the point of near dislocation. Nick didn't cry out though, didn't want to give Deon the satisfaction of knowing he was causing actual pain to him or even a hint of what Nick could do to him instead. The amount of damage Nick could wreak in revenge, he couldn't know, at least not until Nick had a plan in place. Once he unleashed his own anger, it would be unclear as to how many people would survive the night intact.

Nick's silence only frustrated Deon more like a spoiled child in want of attention. _You want me to beg or something? _Nick wondered with a tired smirk on his lips. _Is that what you're used to? Your boyfriends just rolling over and taking it?_

Apparently that's what Deon was accustomed to as the larger man suddenly ground his hips into Nick and let a hand creep around to Nick's front to reach around in his sweats, his heavy breathing hot in Nick's ear. If Deon thought he'd just stand there and take it without a fight, he had a few things to learn about Nick Burkhardt.

"You expect me to memorize your name when you plan on taking me from behind? Seems a little unfair," Nick said, not an ounce of fear apparent in his steady voice despite the risky gamble. Deon was physically superior to him, sure, but the same could be said of many other creatures he'd taken on.

Nick had hardly any time to wonder if his plan would work when he was spun on his heels and slammed hard against his back.

_Perfect, _Nick thought, not even bothering to conceal his grin. He shouldn't be enjoying this fight as much as he was, but he'd been putting up with Deon's bullshit for far too long.

Nick's nonchalant mood only angered Deon more as he grabbed Nick by the chin, yanking his face forward. He put his face right up against Nick's, his sticky, sour breath seeping into the shorter man's nostrils, his forehead pressed to Nick's in challenge. Fingernails dug into his skin, the larger man's hand clamped tightly around his jaw. Nick's whole face would be purple by morning; so much for trying to conceal his abusive relationship. Everyone in the precinct would know just by looking at him.

"Get out of my face," Nick demanded through fiercely gritted teeth.

"Fucking make me, you little cunt."

Nick tore at the hand on his face, humiliation making his movements wild and less coordinated. He was surprised by the other man's strength while inebriated. Nick used the back of his arm to knock Deon off only to be slammed against the wall again.

"I'll give you one chance to walk out of here before I-" Nick didn't get the chance to finish his sentence as he was interrupted by the stinging slap of Deon's hand across his face; the force hard enough to make even his eyes sting.

Nick glared, his patience worn clear through. Deon didn't have any more chances to back off; Nick was done giving out free passes to be treated like shit by this guy.

"Just remember, I warned you," was the last thing Nick said before he punched Deon square in the mouth, sending the younger man crashing onto his ass on the floor. He gripped a hand to his face, a high moan gurgling out of his throat. Before he could say anything, Nick kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.

"If you think I can't take you, you've got something else coming. I've put up with your bullshit long enough. Believe it or not, I'm a seasoned fighter. I've _killed _people in hand-to-hand combat before. If you value your life, you _will _walk out of here_._"

"Goddamn it!" Deon screamed, ignoring everything Nick was saying. "You broke my fucking tooth!"

"Your teeth will be the least of your problems if you bother to come back here," Nick muttered before he glanced around and spied Deon's keys and wallet resting in their usual place on the fireplace mantle. Nick honestly didn't care anymore. He was going to make Deon leave that night, drunk or not. There was no way he was letting the man sleep on the couch; if the man made one more move towards him, he knew he'd end up shooting him without remorse. He'd just call the police to report a drunk driver the moment Deon started down the gravel road. The asshole could spend the night sobering up in jail. He certainly deserved it.

"You're kicking me out?" Deon cried out indignantly. "You can't do that! I have nowhere to go!"

"Tough shit," Nick snorted as he started to cross the room to grab Deon's keys. "I suggest you figure it out. I'll drop off your crap at your sister's tomorrow. For now, I suggest you ask one of your friends if you can sleep on their couch. Or better yet, why don't you drag yourself home and show that family of yours the asshole they raised. Hell, maybe your stepfather -"

Just as his fingers were grazing the cool metal, a sudden blow to his back reduced him to his knees, his legs momentarily losing all feeling as he scrambled to keep himself upright. There wasn't time to react as a rough hand gripped him by the hair and slammed his skull straight into the stone of the fireplace.

How, _how_ could he be so stupid? It was twice that night he'd let the other get the advantage over on him.

There wasn't much time for deliberation though as thought, function, everything stopped momentarily as his consciousness swam through blood and black. His nose unquestionably broken; somewhere he bled. He felt it in the warm, wet heat coursing down his face, dribbling down his chin. His fingers trembled against the hearth as his brain tried to comprehend, tried to catch up with time. The animalistic portion of his brain wanting to hide, fight, just survive while the dominate part of him just wanted to sleep and hope for it all to go away. Somewhere he heard Deon yelling, his angry words swirling above his head, but he couldn't understand them. Had he said something so terrible to deserve this?

Again his face met with the stone, more blood, more pain, until he was swept backwards, a hand still in his hair, now slick with blood, another wound around his throat, his feet dragging against the smooth wooden floor. If he'd been more aware, if his brain could think clearly for even a moment, he might have fought back a little more - every thought confused, only half thoughts really as though falling into a slumber. The last place Nick wanted to be was flat on his back on the couch. The cushions felt far better than stone, but not even he could delude himself into thinking that things weren't escalating into a perilous situation.

It took only a few yanks for Deon to strip Nick of his sweatpants.

The stranglehold against his throat, his vision darkening around the edges. He tried to kick - to fight - but the more he moved, the tighter the hand gripped. Deon's other hand was around his ankle, lifting his leg. Nick didn't want it to go this way. The first finger sent pain shooting up his spine; by two he wanted to cry - the humiliation far worse than anything the other man could do to him.

Nick tried to pull at the hand around his throat in vain, Deon was too close to him; his legs were useless in his own defense. Deon gave no thought to Nick's struggling body, to his strangled wheezing breaths as the smaller man fought uselessly for air. Deon was intent on showing Nick exactly what he thought of him - what he thought of everyone smaller and 'weaker' than him.

The unzipping clicks of metal against metal, the shifting weight of the man above him, hard fingers digging into the flesh of his tender thigh… This was not how Nick wanted to die.

Nick did the only thing afforded him and pressed the heels of his thumbs into Deon's eye sockets with as much force as possible in his shaking limbs until the other man growled and released him.

"You little shit!" he screamed as he sat back, his fist raised to strike Nick square in the face. There wasn't even a moment to catch his breath as Nick kicked his heel into the soft flesh between throat and jaw, taking the taller man by surprise. Unbalanced, Deon fell backwards and landed with a painful thump onto his side; Nick rolled the other way, off of the couch and onto the floor to scramble onto all fours like an animal. He quickly got into a crouching, defensive position as he gathered his bearings, his brain still scrambled but working to catch up to the situation at hand.

There was blood in his eyes; he was half-blind from the wet heat. His balance was compromised, but no more so than Deon's. He was naked, completely vulnerable, but as he was, he was wild. The blood rising up in him, the Grimm awakening slowly, the human animal retreating, sleeping as the true beast took hold of his bones.

Nick brought himself to stand, sweeping a hand across his face to clear his vision and to brush aside sopping black hair. Droplets of blood fell around his feet in discernable _plop plops_, the sound echoing faintly in his own ears. Nick stared down at Deon, his lips pulled back into a maddening grin. His teeth were red with his own blood, the whites glinting in the light like a predator after a kill.

Deon hesitated for a moment as he stared up at Nick; his mouth agape with uncertainty. Before he could chance to stand, speak, beg, Nick gave a swift kick to the man's chest, sending him tumbling backwards once more. There was a harsh crack as the other man's skull met with wall. The taller man sat there in a daze, confusion evident on his face.

"Hey, baby, why are you on the floor?" Nick crooned, his voice raspy as he stepped closer to the other, his footsteps silent against the floor.

The expression that crossed the other man's face was one Nick had never seen him wear before. Fear. Did he know what he'd awakened? What he'd brought upon himself? The Grimm inside of Nick saw no difference between Deon and a dangerous enemy to be destroyed. Its only default was set to kill. Only a small part of Nick was sane enough to realize he needed to let this man live, even though every instinct told him to kill him instead, to do away with the threat.

Nick dragged Deon to his feet, stood him up. The blow to the head must have knocked the sense out of him as he was far too slow to react. When Deon did manage to catch his footing, Nick grabbed him by the hair and slammed a knee into the prick's face, a crazy smile crossing his features at the sound of teeth and bone colliding. The man wanted to collapse to his knees, but Nick wouldn't let him. Still gripping the taller man's hair, Nick kneed him once more before letting the man fall to the floor. Blood spewed down Deon's chin from his nose and mouth, pooling under him. His fingers scrambled at the floor for purchase, slipping in the blood as he tried to crawl away from Nick.

Nick followed after him, his footsteps slow and calculated, in absolutely no hurry. No, he would enjoy this. Deon scurried away from him, in his haste knocking over the fireplace implements with his frantic feet. Nick stooped to grab the antiquated fireplace poker and rotated it in his hand, the cold iron leaving his palms blackened.

"Do you know how easy it would be to jam this through your eye socket and into your skull?" Nick's tone wasn't even threatening, just informative. Cold. Perhaps even bordering on insane.

"Oh, please god…" Deon cried softly, his back against the couch, blood and tears mixing together.

"If you hadn't thought to try and rape me first, would you have used these on me?" Nick asked as he took a step towards the sniveling man, swinging the black iron in his hand like a baseball player would a practice swing. "Would you have liked that? To see my brain splattered on the walls? Maybe an eyeball speared on the end here," he laughed, his thumb brushing against the sharpened point.

"I - I never would have killed you! I never would have done any of that!"

Nick swung the hard piece of metal again, enjoying the way the other man winced in fear. He'd love nothing more than to imbed the tool into Deon's body, but he couldn't let himself be tempted. Not for the moment, anyway.

He tapped and slid the tool against the stone of the fireplace, the scrape of the metal causing Deon to cringe pathetically. Nick snapped around to look directly at the sniveling mess on the floor. Without warning, Nick lunged, crossing the space between them in two steps to kick Deon square in the chest, not giving the other man a chance to defend himself or react.

"Who's the bitch now?!" Nick yelled, pulling back and kicking him again.

The other man recoiled, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms covering his face. Nick grabbed the larger man by the arms and threw him hard onto his stomach before landing on his back with his full weight. He pressed a hard knee between the taller man's shoulder blades, the bar of iron pressed firmly against his windpipe. Nick bent to whisper into his ear.

"Not quite so tough when they fight back, huh?" Nick sneered as he pulled the bar back harder, the metal digging into the tender flesh of Deon's neck, threatening to crush his already bruised trachea. "You're pathetic. You're nothing more than a coward. There are things about me you don't know. I could snap your neck right here and no one would ever know."

"P-Please Nick," Deon blubbered, "I love you, oh god, you know I love you," he sobbed. "Please, _please _let me go!"

"Let you go? Ha! That's pretty funny. Do you even know how many times you've hurt me? Left bruises on me?"

Deon gurgled back, beginning to choke on the blood in his mouth. "P-_please_!" he managed between raspy, shallow breaths. "I'm begging you…"

"No one would even hear you scream," Nick said, repeating Deon's words back to him. "Who do you think would come looking for you? You've said it yourself. Your family's all but abandoned you."

"S-Shut up!"

"They've cut you off. They don't want you. No one wants you. You'd be better off dead. No one would ever miss you. I should just kill you. Do us all a favor. Would you like that? To be dead?"

"Oh, god, oh please, mercy..!"

The body under him was trembling terribly, the fingers of one hand scrambling against the floor, the other digging at the metal pressed against his neck. The energy fled from Nick then. He was just so tired of all of this.

"You're in luck," Nick said sounding positively cheerful, his voice belying his true feelings. "I'm feeling sort of generous tonight. I promise to let you leave this house in tact if you promise me one thing."

"A-anything!" the man sobbed. "I'll do anything…!"

"Here's the deal. If you ever dare to lay a hand on another person, if you ever treat them the way you did me, I will find you, and I will cut off your testicles and make you eat them," he pulled the metal back hard to emphasize each point, "cut off your dick and fuck you with it, and then slit your throat like the pig you are. Are we clear? And before you think I'll never find out, I _will _know," Nick finished, pulling the bar back hard once more with an even fiercer jolt.

"Yeah, yeah, anything!" Deon practically sobbed. "Please don't kill me! I'll never do it again!"

Nick climbed off of Deon and stepped back, allowing the other man to scramble to his feet and towards the front door in a stumbling haste. He watched as Deon tripped over his own two feet and fell to his knees, practically crawling the last couple of yards. Nick followed right behind him, the fireplace poker still in his grip. When the man was nearly out the door in a hunched over mess, Nick lifted his leg and pushed, knocking Deon clear off of his feet and down the front steps.

"If you come back, _this_," he waved the fireplace poker, "is going right up your ass."

The other man only cried out as he stumbled towards his car. He scrambled at the locked door, frantic. It took Nick only a moment to locate Deon's keys and wallet and chuck it at him across the yard. He laughed when he saw the giant of a man fall to his knees to scoop up his salvation and attempt once more to get the hell out of there.

Nick lost all interest in the pathetic display then and just slammed the door closed to the whole thing. He was battling unconsciousness as it was and felt a chill starting up his back. It was time he took care of himself.

He knew he needed to call the police to report Deon; he was drunk and panicked. It was unlikely he _wouldn't _cause a horrific accident. And as he thought about it, he should probably call an ambulance for himself. He was starting to feel incredibly dizzy, his head injuries fully announcing themselves now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade.

He stumbled back into the living room intent on locating his cell phone. He pulled his sweatpants back on and wiped some of the fresh blood out of his eyes with the back of his arm. He found his phone minutes later in the kitchen, broken into several pieces and laying at the base of the refrigerator. Nick felt his legs begin to wobble at the sight, the adrenaline finally wearing away leaving him drained and sore.

Deon had destroyed his phone. It wasn't just a cracked screen, chunks of it were actually snapped off and scattered. Nick searched his brain for a possible reason. It wasn't like Nick had anything inappropriate on it, and he never texted or called anyone.

Was Deon's attempts to, essentially, _murder _him premeditated? Had he destroyed the phone to prevent Nick from calling for help?

Nick somehow doubted it. The other man wasn't especially intelligent. He wasn't dumb per say, but he certainly wasn't a mastermind, especially when he was drunk. More likely he'd thrown it at the wall because he was pissed.

Even still, Deon not necessarily planning on killing him didn't make things better. Multiple head injuries didn't just miraculously go away, and Nick could feel himself beginning to shake. _Oh, god, don't let me go into shock_, he phone. He couldn't drive in this state. He'd end up killing himself for sure. His nearest neighbor was at least a mile down the road.

Why'd everything have to go so _wrong_?

Nick dragged himself into the downstairs bathroom and wrapped himself in a towel, grabbing another to press against his throbbing face as he curled up beside the bathtub.

He felt so stupid; so useless. He'd fought wesen much stronger, more intimidating and far deadlier than a mere, stupid human like Deon. His injuries were his own fault. He should have known better. Why in the hell did he turn his back in the first place? He'd never done something so idiotic in his life! He had years of police training at his disposal, not to mention all of the practice he had dealing with wesen.

Was it because Deon had never actually hit him before? No, it still didn't excuse his negligence. Nick had been anticipating a violent altercation with Deon for weeks on end. He should have been more prepared; he should have dealt with it better. He should have known.

Nick was cold, tired. He couldn't think anymore. He felt himself slipping, sliding until he eventually slumped against his side on the floor and succumbed to darkness. Somewhere in the distance, between black and consciousness, he heard the scream of coyotes in the field, fresh kill on their lips.

* * *

That night he dreamt of Monroe killing Deon; thick, black blood dribbling down his jowls. It wasn't something to smile about, but Nick felt a sense of satisfaction watching Deon's limbs being torn from their sockets. In his dream, Monroe whispered against his ear, his breath hot and his lips moist, _"I should have killed him sooner," _before curling around Nick's freezing body. He was so warm, so hot, it made Nick's blood boil with the blutbad's heat.

* * *

When Nick woke the next morning, he was alone. So utterly alone. He pulled the blankets tight around his shoulders, his face aching, pulsating with every heavy beat of his heart. He couldn't imagine how he'd managed to sleep at all with the pounding in his head. He was still exhausted, the whole night wrought with restlessness. Maybe he was subconsciously paranoid that Deon would return for some reason; maybe that's why he'd woken up every hour or so, his eyes blinking blearily into the darkness for a moment or two before he was pulled back into slumber. Nick wanted to go back to sleep, but he couldn't quite get comfortable again. Every movement felt like another punch to the face.

Nick sighed. Knowing it'd be impossible to sleep anymore (not to mention he had to figure out what he was going to do about work), Nick dragged himself from bed and went into the adjoining master bath to calculate the damage.

He was surprised when he looked at himself in the mirror. Under the bandages, it was difficult to recognize his own features. There was absolutely no way he could go into work looking the way he did. His whole face was a painful mess of bruises, the entire right side of his face throbbing and horrifically swollen. The pain was so intense, it nauseated him. Deon had really done a number on him. It made him regret letting the other man walk away.

So far Nick had gotten away with killing; would one more have been so noticeable?

He breathed out a laugh through his mouth. It was a stupid thing to think, but imagining Deon's dead, mangled body made him feel a little better.

Nick touched a few tentative fingertips to the crisp white bandages against his forehead. He was surprised he hadn't bled more and how well he'd managed to patch himself up in his (no doubt) concussion laden brain. It was probably the police officer inside of him. He honestly didn't remember much from the night before after Deon left. He hardly remembered crawling into bed.

* * *

Downstairs, Nick hunted for his phone until he found the remains of it on the kitchen floor and remembered _why _he hadn't called for an ambulance again. Just the sight pissed him off. He had no way of contacting the office. No phone; he hadn't bothered to set up the computer since he did most of his emailing _on _his phone and he really didn't feel like searching for all of the parts in the remaining unpacked boxes. He wasn't even sure which boxes they were in.

Nick slumped down on the couch feeling despondent and sleepy again. He didn't particularly want to go to the hospital, but he knew he probably needed to. He was probably okay since he'd made it through the night and still remembered who and where he was, but some painkillers would be fantastic. Or could he get by with _Tylenol_ and aspirin? Nick's vision wasn't swimming, so he could probably drive, but the last thing he wanted to do was drive by the office to let the Captain and Hank know he would not be coming in the for the next several days (and if he was going to do that, he might as well just stay and work, there'd be no secrets by that point).

Annoyed, Nick brushed his hand over the couch cushions, the soft material under his fingertips a pleasant distraction. A few rough patches caught his attention.

Dried blood. His own dried blood. It stained the couch in splotches of brown. It almost looked like a murder scene. More dried blood on the floor. His, Deon's. Streaks from where Deon had tried to escape; where Nick tried to fight.

Nick's head slumped against the couch back, his eyes on the ceiling. He'd have to throw the couch out or have it reupholstered, but how to explain bloodstains? It wasn't his couch anyway, it'd come with the house, but it was a nice piece of furniture nonetheless. His hands continued to travel over couch cushions, trying to memorize the material's pattern until he was stopped by the feel of cool plastic.

He looked down. Deon's phone. He felt almost victorious for having found it. The other man would probably be back relatively soon to collect his things (he doubted he'd stay away for too long). Until then, Nick would use it. There was no reason _not _to.

* * *

After Nick called the secretary to let her know he wasn't going to be coming in, he decided to call Hank since it seemed like the polite thing to do. Unfortunately, Hank was once again drawing all the right conclusions to Nick's dismay.

"Is he still there? I can be there in twenty -"

"Hank, I don't know what you're talking about, but I have a cold or something," Nick lied. "Probably just a 24 hour bug or something. I don't need you to drop by, I'm fine."

"Sounds like a pretty bad cold," Hank agreed somewhat reluctantly. Nick's broken nose did a rather good impression. "If you need me, just let me know. You know I'll be there in a flash."

"Thanks, man, but I got it. Just gonna stay in bed and watch TV or something. Sleep it off."

"Okay. Do you need groceries or anything…?"

"Got it covered. Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow."

Nick knew he'd be calling in for awhile; a broken nose alone could take a month to heal properly. What was he thinking? God, how stupid was he? He realized with a sinking heart that everyone would see him this way. Beaten and bruised. He could only call in sick for so long before he'd get in trouble, unless he had a doctor's note; besides the lure of painkillers, he really didn't want to go to the hospital. He didn't want to have to explain to others why he was such a dumbass. He wondered if Rosalee had anything that could help. Maybe he didn't _have _to go at all. There was always a benefit to having a friend who ran an apothecary.

* * *

By the time Nick called Rosalee, he'd pretty much convinced himself that he was _not _going to the hospital - he balked at the thought of telling a doctor his boyfriend had tried to rape and murder him and no, he was not filing charges. He wondered if that was why there were so many dropped charges on Deon. Was the shame too much to bear publicly? After he'd begrudgingly (and vaguely) explained the situation to Rosalee in the haziest degree possible, she listed off every possible thing that could possibly go wrong with him from the injury he'd sustained - a brain infection among them - and why he needed to go to the hospital _immediately. _It didn't take long after that for Nick to find himself in the emergency care area.

* * *

And he did look like a train wreck, there was no denying that. Every nurse he'd seen, every patient in the waiting room, they'd all looked at him with surprise in their eyes before averting their gaze. Nick only felt embarrassed. They probably thought he'd been in a fight or was the victim of a mugging, but he knew the shameful truth. He was thankful when he was eventually shown to his own room to wait for the doctor. Sitting there on the cold examining table, he ran though excuses in his head like a comedian preparing jokes. _Yeah, after I fell down that double flight of stairs, I ran my head repeatedly into a steel doorknob. I'm such a klutz. Laughter. Applause. Thanks, you guys have been great. I'll be here all week. _

When the doctor finally came in, Nick found himself unable to lie to her. He managed a few excuses before she pried the truth out of him. After a very embarrassing lecture admonishing him for not coming in sooner or contacting the police - he failed to mention he _was _a cop, though he did admit to the event being the end result of abuse - he received a very nice doctor's note for his troubles letting him off for two weeks for a head injury, which would _not _be fun to explain when the time came. Despite Nick assuring the doctor he was no longer seeing Deon, she still made him take several fliers and pamphlets on domestic violence and abuse after the nurse patched him up and fixed the haphazard stitching job he'd managed somehow the night before. Nick didn't feel any better looking at them, perhaps even worse knowing he was now a statistic.

While Nick was waiting for his prescription to be filled, he listed off the injuries Deon had caused to him in his head. He apparently had a fractured cheekbone and eye socket on the right side of his face. A moderate gash in his scalp at the base of his hairline. Several other scrapes from the stone of the fireplace. His nose was broken, but it couldn't be set until the bruising subsided; he'd have to come back. His hip hurt from where he'd fallen onto his side against the hardwood floor; two of his fingers were fractured from punching so indiscriminately, which he'd noticed they were sore and stiff, but that one had surprised him. And then of course his ass hurt, but it hurt probably the least amount when he considered everything else.

He felt like a human punching bag. Part of him just wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. Not until he felt better. Knowing what he knew now, it made him wish he'd wreaked more havoc on Deon when he'd had the chance.

* * *

After Nick picked up a new phone (the sales clerk politely refused to look at his face for very long), he headed to Rosalee's. Though she directed him to the hospital, she still wanted him to stop by just in case there was anything she could do for him (and she was worried). She didn't have any quick fixes, but there were some things that would make the next several weeks more bearable for Nick as he healed.

"Here, this should help with the bruising," she said as she brought over the homemade ointment she'd whipped up while Nick drank his tea. "It'll help to dissipate the blood under your skin more quickly. It should help with the pain a bit as well. I can also proscribe something more on top of that."

"Thanks, Rosalee," Nick said with a smile as she dabbed the cool ointment onto his skin. It burned for a short few seconds before returning to its curiously chilled nature. Nick didn't know what was in it - not that he would understand even if she did explain it to him - but he was grateful for the rank stuff nonetheless.

"So, what did this to you?" she asked with concerned eyes, her brows drawn together in worry.

"Just a guy," Nick replied vaguely, unsure how much he wanted to tell her.

"Not a wesen?" Nick shook his head. "Well, I hope you arrested him. I can't believe he did this to you." When Nick hesitated, Rosalee asked, "_Did _you catch him, I hope..?"

"He wasn't… he wasn't a criminal." Nick bit the bullet. "He was my boyfriend."

"Ah," she said, sitting back in momentary surprise, her eyes wide. She quickly collected herself. "Well, I certainly hope he's your _ex_-boyfriend now. Speaking from experience, men like that don't change."

"I know," Nick laughed, wincing when his face burned. "I shouldn't have stayed as long as I did, but… Nice to feel wanted again, I guess."

She gave him a sad smile; he had a feeling she understood him too well. "Have you thought about Monroe at all..?" she asked softly.

Nick's eyes widened minutely at the mention of the older man. He wasn't sure what she meant by that. Wasn't she dating him? Or was she changing the subject, hoping to fix their friendship to help ease her own relationship troubles? He doubted her motivations were that selfish; he knew she cared.

"Um, Monroe?" Nick asked slowly. "I still haven't talked to him… Kind of hard when he's changed his phone number," he finished sarcastically.

"It's the same as before, it was just -"

"Then maybe I'm blocked," Nick spat out with a mirthless laugh, ignoring the pain it caused him. "Thanks for trying to help, Rosalee, but the man wouldn't even speak to me face to face on my gallery opening. His stance on our 'friendship' is pretty clear at this point."

"The phone thing was a mix-up; he forgot to pay the bill," she snapped, bordering on defensive.

Nick rolled his eyes and shook his head once.

"Look here," she demanded, her eyes glowing amber in the dim shop light as she bordered on woging. "You might not believe me, but he's been a complete wreck over you. Forgetting to pay his phone bill doesn't compare to the hell he's been through." Her eyes widened after her outburst. Seeing Nick's shocked expression, she immediately apologized. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, Nick. What am I thinking, yelling at you? You've been through so much worse… I'm sorry, I'm such a terrible friend."

"No, no," Nick comforted as he pulled her into a side hug, patting her on the head. "You just care. You just want things to go back to normal. I wish they could too."

"If it helps, I yelled at Monroe too," she murmured as she hugged him back. They stayed that way for awhile; Nick glad for the comfort of another person after the last few weeks. He wouldn't cry in front of her, but part of him wanted to. Eventually they pulled away from each other.

"I know it's hard to forgive him," she started again earnestly, "but Monroe truly regrets what he's done to you. At least consider giving him another chance. I know it doesn't mean much coming from me, but I know he loves you."

It'd been awhile since Nick had seriously thought about the older man's motivations, his whole life wrapped up in Deon. Sure, he'd thought of Monroe a lot recently, but it was mostly relegated to dirty fantasies in order to block his dimming reality. But Rosalee's words made him question any amicable feelings Monroe had ever had for him. But he knew she was telling the truth; she wouldn't lie to him. She had no reason to. And Monroe was loyal like that. Pack oriented. He didn't doubt the feeling of camaraderie Monroe had once felt for him. And the sense of obligation that had sent their friendship into the pit of obliteration.

Maybe the fuchsbau could sense his doubts because she sighed as she shook her head regretfully, her eyes lingering on the dark bruises marring his once attractive face.

"He'd be absolutely besides himself if he knew what had happened to you."

Nick felt something then. He wouldn't call it déjà vu, and he certainly couldn't call it a memory… just a sense. A sensation of remembrance.

A familiar feeling of warmth.

* * *

An hour after Nick had arrived home from Rosalee's (a good portion of that time spent trying to hide the evidence of the night before, scrubbing floors and the stained couch), he was greeted by the unwelcome sight of a familiar black Lincoln trundling down the gravel drive in front of his house. Already weak and feeling far too under the weather to deal with Deon once more, Nick felt around for his gun and quickly clipped the holster onto his belt, tucking the whole thing under his shirt.

He was relieved when it was only Deon's sister, Dahlia, and an older, well-dressed woman who he assumed to be their mother. Dahlia looked very similar to Deon: the same golden brown hair, wide set shoulders and long legs. She was dressed in a dark dress suit, a pair of sunglasses hiding her face. The older woman wore a similar dress suit done in cream, a fur stole around her neck and a similar pair of dark sunglasses. Nick watched the two women approach. The closer they drew to the house, the more Nick noticed the grimace on Dahlia's face and the way her lips seemed to quiver. Did she know what had happened? Had Deon actually confessed to what he'd done? Or was she upset with Nick for the few punches he'd managed to get in in retaliation?

When he did open the door, Dahlia's expression worsened when she pulled her glasses off, tears actually forming in the corners of her eyes when she took in his battered appearance. However, Deon's mother's lips pulled back with a grimace instead, a look of distaste crossing her features when she saw him.

"This is the last thing I hoped to find," Dahlia breathed with a bittersweet laugh, tears glittering on her thick lashes. "Goddamn it, Deon," she muttered.

"I suppose you're here for his things?" Nick replied, his voice just as bitter. He hadn't managed to assemble all of Deon's belongings just yet, but most of it he'd already thrown together into the few duffle bags the other man had brought to the house and a few garbage bags. Most of it was dirty laundry anyway, or his video games.

"Actually, I wanted to ask you… Earlier this morning," her voice cracked, her whole face growing red with emotion as a few tears slid freely down her cheeks, "Deon… Deon was found under a highway overpass. He - He -"

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob from escaping, her head shaking back and forth slowly, her eyes trained on the ground. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and collected herself as best she could before forcing herself to look at Nick once more.

Her voice warbled uncontrollably as she forced the words past the thickness in her throat. "He'd been attacked. His spine… _dislocated_. Do you have _any _idea why my brother would have been in Oregon City?"

Nick stumbled forward, his hand clutched to the doorframe as his whole world teetered for a moment. He was surprised by the tears that managed to build in the corners of his own eyes. He'd thought he'd hated Deon with every ounce of his soul; how could there still be subtle traces of emotion there? Why was he so… _sad_?

"Is he… is he alive..?" Nick gasped, his words almost a sob. Part of him didn't want to know, didn't want to hear her pronounce him dead. Deon never would have changed, and Nick still didn't forgive him for what he'd done, but the last thing he wanted was for the other man to die so brutally. If he'd wanted Deon dead, truly dead, he would have done it himself.

"Yes, but - but -"

"His spine was _dislocated_," Deon's mother reiterated bitterly. "How is that any better?"

"The police think it was a mugging gone terribly, terribly wrong," Dahlia explained. "His wallet was missing, his body… _his body mutilated_,"she sobbed, thick streaks of mascara spoiling her beautiful complexion. "Why would anyone do that to someone? To my _brother_?"

Nick just shook his head, not sure what to say. He'd seen some disturbingly messed up things himself in his years at the police force. He could be a thousand years old and never understand why people did the things they did.

"Why was my son so far away when his car's still here?" Deon's mother demanded, her hands clenched at her sides as though she wanted nothing more than to shake the answers out of him.

"I don't know," Nick answered honestly. "After we fought, he left. I assumed one of his friends picked him up when I saw his car this morning. He was really drunk. He shouldn't have been driving anyway." He saw the glint in the older woman's eye. "And before you even _think_ I had anything to do with what happened to him, I was nearly unconscious when he left. After he did _this _to me," Nick snapped as he pointed to his black and blue face and the gauze covering wounds still threatening to bleed.

"Of course we don't think you had anything to do with it," Dahlia quickly assured him, her face desperate. "The police have a feeling several people may have been involved. Because… of his injuries, the police wondered if my brother had any enemies. If he owed someone money. We told the police about Deon's history of drug abuse… Do you know if he was using when you were with him..?"

"I… didn't think so," Nick answered with surprise. He berated himself for not suspecting something like that sooner. He was a detective of all things.

"There must be _something _you could tell us," the mother snapped back just as harshly. "God, knows the two of you were together long enough for you to notice _something._"

Nick didn't like the attitude this woman directed towards him. He _was _trying to help.

"Well," Nick said as he thought of something. "When we first got together, things were great between us. But as time went on, he'd become increasingly angry and violent with me. Like he was a whole different person."

"Yes, but could you tell us anything more substantial?" the woman cut in, her voice impatient and disdainful as though what had happened to Nick was nothing to be concerned about.

"Your son tried to _rape _and _murder _me. What could be more substantial than that?"

"How _dare _you insinuate my son to be some sort of… _criminal._ My son will spend the rest of his life drooling into a rag and soiling himself like some sort of _imbecile_, and here you are, perfectly fine and healthy. My son's life, _his future_, was worth a hundred times more than yours! And how do I know you haven't given my poor son some sort of venereal disease, you - you… _disgusting sodomite_."

Nick's eyes narrowed, his whole body going cold with rage as his stomach churned sickly. "Get off my property immediately before I call the police," he warned. "The next time I see you will be inside of a court room. Don't think I won't press charges for what your son did to me_._"

"No, please!" Dahlia begged, her voice frantic. "Mother, please go get in the car."

"No! This man _knows _what happened to Deon. I will _not _leave until he tells me _exactly _what he knows!"

"_Mom!_" Dahlia screamed, taking the both of them by surprise. "Get in the car! Let me handle this."

Her mother glared stubbornly for a moment before she turned and stalked back to the car, her back straight and her arms crossed. When she was safely inside of the car, Dahlia turned to Nick and apologized again.

"I'm so sorry. She's so protective of my brother."

"She knows Deon's gay, right?"

Dahlia's eyes flickered to the ground for a moment before she smiled uncomfortably at Nick. "May I come in, please? I really would like to talk. One on one."

"Okay," Nick relented as he stepped aside to let her in. She stood awkwardly in the front hall as Nick closed the door. "Here," Nick said as he showed her towards the couch, "Let's sit."

He was thankful he'd covered the couch earlier with the throw blanket; he wasn't exactly expecting company, but it'd been good forethought nonetheless. Though Nick had nothing to do with what had happened to Deon, blood would bring the police bearing down on his head.

"Again, I'm sorry for what my mother said," Dahlia murmured as she perched on the edge of the sofa, a tissue in one hand as she dabbed at the streaks of black on her cheeks. She sniffed once before reaching into her bag with trembling hands.

"I know this isn't much," she said, "but please accept this as a token of our remorse," she finished softly as she handed Nick a slip of paper. It wasn't just a slip of paper, but a check for $40,000. Nick stared at the bold, black numbers in silence as he tried to comprehend.

"What..?" Nick said slowly, stumbling over his own thoughts. "I can't accept this."

"I can give you more," she said quickly as she pulled out her checkbook and a pen, willing to write him another check. "The publicity of a lawsuit would ruin my family… How much would you like?"

"That's not the issue," Nick said honestly, though he wondered how many people in his situation would balk at accepting a healthy check like that when he expected nothing from Deon (let alone his family) in the first place. Part of him told him to just shut up and take the money, another part to hold out for more, and the third, and unfortunately strongest part of him, told him he had to at least _try _to do the right thing. "Deon _must _be held accountable for his actions. If not, he'll just keep repeating them." As evidenced by the multiple dropped physical and sexual assault charges to his name.

"I don't mean to be so brash, but my brother is in no state to stand trial. There's no guarantee he will even make it through the night, let alone…" she trailed off. No doubt speaking of prison.

"He could be just as your mother says? A… vegetable?" Even Nick, who'd been Deon's latest victim, didn't wish prison time on someone who couldn't even begin to protect himself. Sure the man had victimized plenty, but the thought of what could possibly happen to the defenseless man sickened Nick to the pit of his stomach. He doubted he'd be placed in the general population, but even in a prison hospital, Deon could be hurt or taken advantage of.

"His doctors have yet to confirm anything, but it's a definite possibility. When his condition stabilizes, the doctors will begin to test for damage to his spinal cord, but until then, we can only pray."

"What are the odds?" Nick asked slowly. She looked at him as though he was stupid, just like their mother had. Nick wasn't asking to be mean or imply any sort of hopefulness towards a damning diagnosis; he was honestly anxious for her reply. Deon was bad enough after being stripped of a petty scholarship and a fledgling chance at fame; he couldn't imagine Deon when he couldn't even feed or bathe himself. He honestly worried the other man might hurt himself or do himself in.

"His spine was dislocated," Dahlia reminded him again, sounding for a moment like her mother. "His chances of walking," her voice cracked, her eyes scrunching up with tears, "away from this mess is very, _very _unlikely."

She started to cry again, so Nick did his best to comfort her as he reached out a hand to rest over hers.

Eventually she calmed down again and they sat in silence, each staring at their own hands. In Nick's was the check. He smoothed the slim piece of paper between his fingers, shaking his head slightly as he repeated the amount in his head over and over. He glanced at Dahlia and asked, "I'm curious, how many times have you had to do this? Pay off victims of your brother's?"

Her mouth creased as the corner lifted into a bittersweet smile. "I honestly don't like to keep track. My brother's been cut off for awhile, but I can't tell you how often we've had to bail him out. Even after he was officially cut off, my mother would still give him money from time to time, but he'd only spend it on drugs and booze instead of school or groceries like she wanted him to. He was in and out of rehab so many times, we knew the staff by name… We honestly thought he'd finally kicked the habit and gone straight. He'd even started to take classes again." She smiled, but her mouth quickly drooped. "For once he was honestly trying to get his life back together, but then this happened…" she sniffed.

"What sort of drugs did he used to take?" Nick asked. If he knew, maybe he'd recall some of the tell-tale signs.

"More than I could ever name, I'm sure," she laughed. "Mostly party drugs, I think. Nothing like heroin or meth though, thank god."

"I guess that's… something," Nick offered. They fell into silence once more.

"You might not believe me," she whispered, "but my brother used to be such a sweet, gentle boy. He'd never hurt anyone…"

"What happened?"

She pursed her lips, her hands clasped together in front of her as she shook her head, shrugging. Either she didn't know, or didn't want to say. Though Nick deserved to know at the very least, he didn't feel like an interrogation.

"How," she hesitated, "How often would he hit you like that?"

"Like this?" Nick asked, gesturing towards his face. "It's actually the first time, and the last," he added, though it wasn't necessary. Nick laughed, though it was without mirth. Her eyes rounded, brimming with tears again.

"It's ridiculous to say now, but… from the few times we talked, I could tell my brother really loved you." She sniffled again. "Thought the world of you. I don't know why… why he would do this. You were different. Different than all of his other boyfriends. I thought maybe for once he'd get it right. …I guess not."

"No, I guess not," he agreed softly.

* * *

Dahlia left not long after. Nick accepted the check and promised not to press charges. If anything, Deon was being punished already. Prison, a criminal record, it wouldn't change what had happened to Nick or anyone else Deon had hurt along the way.

When the house fell into silence again, Nick returned to his bedroom and crawled under the covers. He found himself quickly curling into a miserable little ball. At first it was just a dampness in his eyes, then a few tears; it wasn't long before he was weeping. He was honestly surprised by the sheer amount of emotion and even anguish he felt, perhaps even more so by the screams coming out of his throat, already sore from where Deon had attempted to strangle him. None of it made his head feel better, but a tightness in his heart eventually loosened.

Nick cried himself to sleep.

It was nearly 7:00PM when he woke again. He lay there in silence, his eyes sticky and dry from his earlier ridiculousness. But he did feel better. He never thought he'd miss Deon, but he missed the warm heat of the other in his bed.

For the first time in years, Nick prayed. He prayed that Deon would be okay.

* * *

He wasn't obligated to return before his two weeks were up, but he felt guilty leaving Hank alone. Hank was certainly capable of handling himself and going over cases without Nick's input, but Nick couldn't bring himself to ignore the influx of unusual (and often violent) wesen involved in many of their most recent cases; it seemed negligent of him to _not _be at work, especially when he wasn't even sick. He was still in pain, of course, but it was nothing a few painkillers couldn't fix. So after a straight week of little more than bed rest and hours upon hours of _Brady Bunch _reruns, Nick was back at the office.

His return was met with mixed reviews. The murmured whispers, the furtive glances; it wasn't quite the welcome back he would have liked, but then again, he wasn't a hero wounded in the line of duty. No, he just felt embarrassed, ostracized by his colleagues. He wondered why he'd bothered to come back early at all.

At least he didn't look quite as horrible as he had a week ago. Rosalee's home remedy worked wonders like she'd promised, most of his bruising subsiding to a sickly yellowish-green, only a few patches of dark still lingering here and there, especially under his battered eye. Even still, nothing but time and then some could mask the rest: the scars from his stitches; the broken nose; the rest of his lumpy, discolored face.

Nick ignored the looks as he got comfortable at his desk. As long as he didn't have to do anything too physical, he was fine to work; the injuries were trivial. If only his coworkers could see that.

"Hey, chief," Wu teased as he approached Nick from behind and slapped a file folder onto his keyboard. "Got one for you - Oh, my…" Wu's voice sort of died in his throat as he gaped at Nick's face with astonishment. "Do I even _want _to know?"

"Probably not," Nick replied, his voice remarkably chipper given the circumstances. At least Wu had the balls to say it to his face.

"Alright, whatever, though you might want to tell your girlfriend to lay off the _Wheaties_."

Nick quirked a brow as he cracked a grin. Only Wu could make the situation seem almost humorous.

"So what's this?" Nick asked as he waved the skinny manila file at the other man.

"Just sent over this morning for a second opinion. I guess they're out of leads. I don't know what they expect _us _to do about it, not that anyone ever asks _me_," Wu finished before zipping off somewhere. Nick just rolled his eyes and threw the file to the side. He'd get to it in a bit. He'd yet to see Hank and the mounting tension was quickly becoming unbearable. He knew the older detective was scheduled to be in, he'd even seen him signed in for the day, but he'd yet to show his face.

Nick didn't have to wait long.

"I thought I heard you were back," a deep voice said from behind Nick's back. Nick spun in his chair and stared up at his partner. The look that crossed Hank's face wasn't a pleasant one.

Of course Hank was happy to have him back, he'd missed him, but the twitch in the older detective's eye seemed to worsen the longer he looked at the younger man's face. Nick managed to evade most of Hank's probing questions (he _did _admit that he and Deon had gotten into a 'scuffle'), but he knew in his heart that Hank couldn't be put off forever. Eventually he'd have to be told _something_; just what and when that was, Nick wasn't sure.

* * *

Oh Fate; what a vindictive bitch. Nick was not the least bit surprised to find that the file ditched earlier on his desk was from Deon's case. Perhaps it was Nick's overall reluctance to really look at it, or Hank's good memory, because it took Hank maybe three seconds to connect all of the dots and give Nick a knowing look.

"This is him, isn't it? The guy who did that to you."

There was no way for Nick to really get out of it at that point. Hank knew, and Hank knew that Nick knew he knew. He couldn't deny what was, literally, right before their eyes.

"Can we not talk about it here?" Nick whispered gruffly as he glanced around to see if anyone was listening.

"Okay, lunch in twenty," Hank said matter-of-factly as he tossed the file folder into Nick's lap and stood up. "I expect some answers."

Nick's eyes didn't quite meet Hank's as he nodded his head reluctantly. He needed to think, and fast. Construct some decent answers that Hank might believe just long enough for Nick to bury all of the evidence of that other side of himself the other detective might not like.

* * *

Hank expected Nick to talk, but Nick had nothing to say. Nothing he wanted to say. The only place Nick could look was down at the file in his lap. It weighed hardly a thing, but its weight was far heavier than he could bear. He could barely bring himself to glance at the photos; it still looked like Deon, but the staggering list of injuries, the documented visuals, it spurred a whole new concern in him.

Multiple fractures to both legs; the skin from wrist to shoulder on Deon's right arm shredded down to sinew and bone. It was really only a matter of time before they found traces of Nick on Deon's person; on his clothing. His blood; skin, hair, _something._ So far the only physical evidence lifted from Deon's body was his work ID, flecks of iron (from the fireplace poker) and an excess of canine saliva.

"_What do they expect us to do? Test every pooch this side of the Columbia?"_

Wu was right. It was nothing to go on. What did they expect from Portland PD? Even if the case went cold, Nick couldn't destroy the files; they were only copies.

He was so fucked.

"What happened?" Hank asked, his voice like a gunshot in the space of the silent car. From the creak of the leather seats, Nick knew the older detective was staring at him.

"Nick?" he pressed when the other man remained silent.

"We did fight," Nick sputtered quickly, "but I had nothing to do with what happened to him. He was mad because I was kicking him out."

"I know there's more to it than that. What _really _happened? Just looking at you…"

It was open ended. Hank couldn't possibly believe he had anything to do with it, did he? So much for trust.

"I talked to his sister. I guess he was mixed up with drugs or something," Nick continued without hesitation, his route determined. "I should have noticed. I knew he was pushing alcoholic, but… His family thinks he may have borrowed against his dealer and they were just coming to collect. I should have seen it earlier. I was stupid." He laughed. "I think he was stealing from the house actually. Maybe even from me." He'd never noticed any money missing, but Hank didn't know that. "I know it's hard to tell considering all of the junk, but I found some pretty valuable things buried underneath it all. A nice digital camera for instance. New in the box - "

"Nick." The stern use of his name froze the words in his throat. "I know there's more you're not telling me. Whatever it is, say it. I'm your partner and your friend. Nothing's going to change that."

"I had _nothing _to do with what happened to that man. If you think for even a second -"

"That's not what I mean. You know that."

"Then what…?" It wasn't really a question because Nick had a feeling he knew what it was.

'_Who _was _Deon to you?' _was the unasked question.

_You say it won't change anything, but it will once you really know what you're asking, _Nick thought miserably as he turned to look out the window; he couldn't bear facing Hank any longer. He couldn't look into his partner's eyes. Above all else, he couldn't stand to let Hank see the way the impending, forced confession was killing him inside.

"Okay," Nick uttered softly, his voice threatening to tremble with emotion. "You're right, there is more to the story. The truth is…"

Nick grew silent, unable to say anymore. He remained that way for a long time, unable to look at Hank or force the rest of the necessary words past this numb lips. He watched cars drive by in the reflection of his window; pedestrians passing. It was the moment he'd dreaded for so long. It seemed impossible to say. He couldn't remember _ever _having confessed the truth of his sexuality before, even to Juliette who would have accepted him regardless. He'd always let his eyes, his physical interest, do the talking instead. Even with Deon; he'd allowed the younger man to assume he was gay, unable to come to terms with it himself.

Nick searched his mind for some lie, some way out of telling Hank the truth. Something else to sate the man's curiosity.

He found nothing. Nothing he hadn't already said.

"The truth is," Nick started again, finally finding his courage, "Deon wasn't just my roommate. He was also… my boyfriend."

The car was dead silent and Nick realized he'd been completely wrong. He doubted Hank had expected that; somehow he'd probably planned on trapping Nick into a confession of guilt for a crime.

Nick felt a tear well up in the corner of his right eye, only to roll down his cheek a moment later as the enormity of what he'd confessed settled onto his shoulders. It wasn't as damning as murder, the mere comparison was laughable, but Hank, his closest friend and ally, was probably disgusted with him. It was all over, he realized.

He was startled by the warm, heavy hand that landed on his shoulder. Nick's turned his head, almost nervously, to stare at his partner's face; he was relieved, yet confused, by the other's gentle smile.

"Thank you for finally telling me," Hank said. "I realize it's not easy to come out, but I wish you would trust me a little more."

"'…Finally?'" Nick muttered as he ran the word through his mind several times. "Wait. You… _you knew_?" Nick asked incredulously. Maybe it was the look on his face, but Hank laughed.

"I've known for years. I never said anything because I was hoping you'd tell me eventually. Maybe that was a mistake. I'm sorry."

"No… Don't be. But… _doesn't it bother you_?"

"No, why should it? You're like a brother to me, Nick. I care about you. Like I said, I wish you'd trust me more. Hell, my best friend growing up was gay. Homosexuals don't bother me in the least. If it bothered me, I would've left long ago."

Nick nodded slowly, his brain still befuddled, but one thing he needed to get straight.

"Just so we're clear," Nick said, "I'm not gay. I loved Juliette, so if you think I was only using her…"

"Believe me, no one loved Juliette as much as you did. I know that."

"Okay, good…"

The car was quiet again.

"So…" Hank started slowly, "this prick. Did you love him?"

"Deon?" Nick was about to say 'no,' when he paused. It'd be a lie if he said so; he'd felt something at one point. Maybe something still. "Yeah, I did. Do, maybe, I'm not sure. Even though he was such an asshole and treated me like shit, I still loved him."

"What about Monroe? Did you love him too?"

Nick raised a brow as he stared at Hank. Hank had been on the right track all along; to be expected from a great detective like Hank Griffin.

"Yeah. I guess I shouldn't be surprised you figured that one out. You're a better detective than I give you credit for."

"Damn straight, I am. I'm starting to wonder if you give me _any _credit at all."

They both laughed.

"So have you talked to Monroe since this all happened?" Hank asked seriously. Nick wasn't sure which part Hank was referring to. Dating Deon or having his ass handed to him.

"No, but I should. At least to figure things out, even if it's…" _Disappointing._

"He still loves you, you know?"

"You… talked to him?" Nick asked with hesitation, the trepidation he'd felt earlier growing in the pit of his stomach. Things were starting to add up to an undesirable sum.

Hank for once looked caught off guard and embarrassed. "I might have mentioned a thing or two to him. Maybe even about Deon."

It was what he feared. His whole body went ice cold at Hank's words. Had Monroe known… everything…?

* * *

Nick ended up leaving work two hours early. He couldn't concentrate; Rosalee's words from the week before, Hank's; they were circling around in his brain like a moth on fire, setting ablaze his fears.

"_He'd be absolutely besides himself if he knew what had happened to you."_

"_I might have mentioned a thing or two to him. Maybe even about Deon." _

A chill ran down Nick's spine again. He didn't want it to be true. It couldn't be true. None of it.

The moment he unlocked the door, he found himself racing up the stairs to his bedroom and tearing every last piece of clothing out of his dresser and onto the floor in a mad haste. Something deep, instinctual, told him he'd find it, buried at the very bottom. Deon had complained of ghosts in the last few weeks they were together; Nick had attributed it to paranoia, another personality affectation, had even considered to pass it off as past drug abuse, but now he had an idea of what it'd truly been.

Under the last piece of clothing, he found it. His favorite green shirt. He held it to his tender nose.

Lavender and mint.

_Shit_, Nick thought as reality slowly sunk into his bones.

What was he going to do?

TBC

* * *

A/N: Okay, I did say there was only one more chapter left, but it was sort of a fib… possibly? There _is _an epilogue chapter. It's not entirely _necessary _to read if you don't want to, but it'll wrap up quite a few loose ends and answer _why _certain 'unnecessary' details were included along the way. I may include it at the end of chapter 12, it just depends on length and time really. Likely it will be its own separate chapter… I hope you will indulge me one last time :/ There will also be (additional) sex, so if that's any sort of incentive *eyebrow waggling* I realize I've punished you guys enough as it is, so it's the least I can do, lol.

It's nearly 5 AM; I'm beat. You know when you get so tired you feel like throwing up? Yeah... I have nothing really to say… actually it will be past five when I finish editing it in the FFN thingy… bleh (4:59 bitches, lol jk).

Anyway, thoughts and critiques are always very much loved. Thanks for reading. Hopefully chapter 12 will be up (relatively) soon(er than later).


	12. ABSOLUTION VIII: FIN FINALITY

A/N: I am so, _so _sorry for what you are about to read, lol. I sort of ran into a dilemma as far as the sex scene was concerned. I realize this fic is rated M (which it certainly deserves at this point), and that everyone has been waiting for the sex. I tried not to be too graphic ( has pretty clear standards on what is allowed/not allowed - unless you're me, then you're sort of just perpetually confused, lol); hopefully I haven't pushed it too far while at the same time providing what everyone has been waiting so patiently for. If anyone feels the sex is far too graphic and could possibly warrant it getting taken down, PLEASE TELL ME (I implore you). I can tone it down to make it coincide better with the rules. I tend not to write too many sex scenes because of my own preference, but at the same time I hope to make them a little different so it's not the same thing all of the time. Hopefully I've accomplished one of the goals I set out to meet, lol (actually… hopefully it's not too terrible/weird).

And apologies for the wait! I have oodles of excuses, but I'll spare everyone.

Please enjoy! (Hopefully the editing isn't totally messed up; to save on time I refused to let myself re-read through this ENTIRE thing one last time. After all of the issues/grammatical and spelling mistakes in the last few chapters alone, not to mention AFTER I specifically went through to fix them AGAIN, I see that it is worthless. There will perpetually be mistakes… D,: )

* * *

ABSOLUTION VIII: FIN FINALITY

_Two weeks before…_

Even if Nick refused to have anything to do with him, Monroe couldn't leave Nick in the situation he was in. It was his duty as a former friend to try to convince Nick he deserved better. He wasn't audacious enough to ever imply himself to be that someone, but Nick deserved a partner who didn't hurt him physically or emotionally at the very least. If Nick _did _see the validity of his point, Monroe would even offer to get rid of the belligerent, younger man for him (through violence if necessary). He'd be more than happy to. If he didn't, well… Monroe would still get rid of the bastard, just without Nick's input on the matter. Monroe decided it was probably best to break the ice between them over the phone (and that way, Nick couldn't shoot him if he felt so inclined and Monroe might not have to murder anyone). If Nick _didn't _answer, well…

Monroe picked up his phone and drew in a deep breath as he clicked on Nick's number. Part of him didn't really expect Nick to answer; he couldn't imagine how incredibly pissed the younger man still was at him, but he'd leave a message and beg for the detective to call him back, if only to say just the one thing. He might even enlist Rosalee's help in getting in contact with him. As far as he knew, Rosalee and Nick weren't on bad terms (they might not see much of each other as of late, but they didn't _hate _each other at least).

Under his ear, the phone rang and rang; Monroe was waiting for it to go to voicemail when a gruff, unexpected voice suddenly picked up on the other side and bit out, "Stop. Calling. He doesn't want to talk to you."

"Who is this?" Monroe growled back feeling a good deal of concern having expected to hear Nick's voice instead.

"He doesn't want to fucking talk to you, Hank!" the man on the other end of the line yelled.

"_Hank_?" Monroe immediately replied feeling genuinely confused. What the hell did Hank have to do with anything? Then everything became clear as Monroe recognized the voice. He berated himself for a moment; he should have realized who it was sooner since half the time he'd heard it, it was screaming. Hank must have been getting on Nick's case about the abuse.

"Who is this?" the man asked, his voice slurring just enough that Monroe could tell the man was pushing drunk. "Another one of Nick's _boyfriends_? Which one are you?"

"Monroe," Monroe ground out. "And may I ask who _I'm _speaking to? Are you the same stellar gentleman who keeps putting bruises all over Nick? 'Cause I'd be pleased as pie to have a word with that a-hole."

"It's not your fucking business what we do."

"It _is _my 'fucking business.' Keep your goddamned hands off of him, do you hear me?" Monroe threatened back. If he could, he'd strangle the man through the phone.

"He's not yours," the man replied. "He's _mine. _I can do whatever the hell I want to him, _so back off_."

"He's not your _property_," Monroe practically yelled."Even if you were _married _he wouldn't be your property_. _Nick doesn't belong to _anyone. _The way you treat Nick is despicable. He deserves a helluva lot better than some piece of crap like you."

There was a pause before the voice on the line laughed derisively. "Nick been telling you I'm tossing him around? Cause that's utter bullshit."

"I've _seen _the bruises," Monroe scoffed back. Suddenly feeling cocky, he jibbed, "And I've seen a heck of a lot more than just his bruises, if you know what I mean."

There was a muffled yell over the line before it went dead. Monroe shook his head as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. As he snagged his keys off of the coffee table and grabbed his jacket, all of his plans to woo Nick back peacefully were thrown out the window. Any thought to personal grooming would be a waste. It'd be ruined the moment he got there, because Monroe was out for blood. He knew Nick could certainly handle his own since he'd seen the two of them tussle a bit in the past, but Monroe was putting an end to this nonsense immediately. No more waiting. He was going to beat the man half to death right in front of Nick if he had to. He didn't care what Nick wanted at the moment; Nick had to be delusional if he was going to put up with someone like that. No one, absolutely _no one_ talked about Nick like a piece of furniture. Nick could kick his ass and complain as much as he wanted to afterwards, but Monroe wasn't going to let anyone push the Grimm around, regardless if he had any real say in the matter.

* * *

Monroe debated on calling Hank. Monroe had seen what Nick's 'boyfriend' was capable of, but he doubted the need for backup. Besides, Monroe couldn't guarantee what might happen and he wasn't entirely sure he could count on Hank to help him dispose of the resulting body. He wasn't entirely keen on killing humans again, but there would always be an exception to his own long standing rule.

Knuckles gripping the wheel, Monroe sped as quickly as his little bug was capable of all the way to Nick's house. He was thankful for the lack of patrolling police officers, though it wouldn't have mattered. His VW maxed out at 85 mph on a _good _day. With every minute that passed, his rage grew. Every altercation he'd witnessed, every bruise, each one flashed through his mind in quick succession making his plans to utterly _destroy _the abusive dick all that more colorful in his brain. It'd been a long time since he'd felt a rage as encompassing as this one. Not since Molly, and that klaustreich hadn't walked away with all of its limbs still attached. As it was, he had an awfully large bone to pick with Dean, and then he'd use the man's bones to pick his teeth clean afterwards. The sound that slipped out of Monroe's throat at the thought sounded almost too evil for him, but he couldn't help but relish in his own devious imaginings. It'd been so long since he'd genuinely felt such a rush of rage that it was almost making him light-headed. If Monroe had more control over his own emotions, he'd stop and ask himself if this was truly how he wanted to handle it, but he could hardly feel his own hands; the blood pumping through his veins was so heated it felt like his flesh would burst and encompass the entire car in flames.

Tonight, he'd be the devil, come to drag Dean straight into hell.

* * *

Monroe didn't immediately detect anything suspicious as he made the drive down the familiar gravel road to Nick's house. He couldn't hear any screaming, or gunshots (both relatively good signs, though he'd never heard the latter). There were lights on in the house, but Monroe couldn't see any silhouettes moving back and forth in their usual arguing routine. Perhaps they'd already gone to bed. It _was _getting sort of late. Monroe hoped for relative peace; he wasn't any less angry, but he'd had some time to think and doubt the virtues of outright _murder_, but if it came down to it and the bastard was already dead, his head already served on a platter, he'd be more than happy to help Nick bury the rest of the body.

Monroe quickly parked his car and got out; as he did so, he saw the dark outline of a tall figure fighting to unlock the little Mazda in a frantic haste. He recognized it to be the other man as Nick wasn't quite that tall. Monroe quirked a brow as he observed him silently for a second. Maybe Nick had already put the bastard in his place. Monroe took a few steps forward and just as he was about to call out and challenge the man, he smelled blood. Nick's blood in particular. The strikingly familiar odor hit the back of his nostrils from several yards away causing a deep seated, boiling rage, even worse than the one he'd fought back in the car, to overtake him. His whole vision swan red for a moment, blinding him to his surroundings as his body blindly charged forward, the back of his neck prickling with thick, black hair as every muscle in his body _burned_. Human thought and moral recognition vanished instantly, leaving not a single eloquent motif in his head as he continued to sprint, gravel rough against the pads of his hands and feet. There was an animal anger controlling him, guiding him to kill the man in front of him.

At the sudden scrape of gravel, the man saw Monroe's charging, black form. After one quick glance, the man bolted into the field just beyond his car. For drunk, he ran surprisingly well; he managed a remarkable distance into the overgrown tumble of weeds before Monroe caught him by the arm with his teeth, throwing him hard onto the ground. Normally Monroe would enjoy the chase, would hang back a bit to give his prey a sense of hope, but this wasn't for fun. This was purely for revenge.

Monroe tore at the man, dragging him by the ankle along the hard dirt, his belly scraping against rock and thistle. When Monroe stepped back, his tongue flicking briefly over his blood-stained teeth for a taste, the man rolled away from him and kicked with frantic legs in the futile hope of deterring his own death. Really, his screams of terror only egged Monroe further on.

Monroe growled low in his throat, immediately silencing the quivering mass in front of him. The man's eyes grew wide with unspeakable horror as he stared up at a great beast unknown to any common man, as he truly beheld Monroe's massive black form poised over him for the first time. Distracted, Monroe lunged.

The air around them grew heated with the sounds of screams as Monroe's teeth clamped firmly around on one of the man's swinging legs, his head snapping instinctually to the side to tear away chunks of meat. The flesh resisted, but bones snapped and crumbled between his teeth like dried kindling. The subsequent ear piercing screams sounded like honey and silk in his ears, the blood just as sweet.

God, why had he ever stopped hunting humans, he wondered with glee as he continued to tug at mutilated flesh with his razor sharp teeth, each bite growing more and more delicious. They were such funny little creatures, especially the way they begged pitifully for their lives. Wesen tended to die with some dignity; humans were _weak_.

Monroe jumped back, his tail wagging excitedly as he dropped the mangled limb to the ground. He watched with amusement as the man tried to scramble away from him to escape, his fingers clawing frantically at dirt and grass. Monroe couldn't help but nip several times at bare toes, urging the man to crawl faster, delighting in the broken sobs spilling out of the man's throat. With another loud snap, Monroe darted forward and bit down on the other leg. Another loud, pitiful scream and the pungent stench of urine and shit filled the air around them. If Monroe could laugh in this form, he would. It was all too funny. He settled for a satisfied growl instead.

And if he could feel pity, he might because this was not a simple kill. If it was, Monroe would end it, rip the man's throat out and be done with it. He would have _already _ended it since the longer the kill lasted, the worse the meat would taste, spoiled rotten with fear. But this lump of flesh wasn't for dinner. No. Monroe couldn't remember quite why he was doing what he was doing; his brain was so far removed from his human conscious that it was impossible for him to know his own motives. But nothing and no manner of distance could separate him from the feeling of vengeance. And he would enjoy every last minute of it: the gibbering cries, the muffled screams as he dragged the scrambling body across the ground, skin and muscle stretching and tearing apart as the leg fracture separated. The blood in his mouth was like fine caramel ghosting over his tongue, a forbidden candy he hadn't tasted in years.

Monroe lapped at his sopping, wet muzzle after he dropped the limp, mangled leg to the ground. The man underneath him was wailing, screaming for help. Monroe thought he may have heard a crunch as he pounced hard onto the man's chest, his teeth tearing at the arm flailing in front of his face. He was about to snap at the dirty face under his when he stopped to take a moment to examine it. The man had ceased to put up much of a fight; he just lay there, motionless, seemingly accepting his fate.

It wasn't nearly as fun. It was boring. Monroe growled.

"P-please," the man simpered at the noise, "p-please don't kill me…!"

'_Kill…' _

'_Kill…' _

'_Kill…' _

The word kept echoing in Monroe's ears, bouncing around in his head like loose ends. He lowered his face until it was inches from the sniveling man's face, thick gobs of blood-mixed saliva dribbling down his jowls and onto the sobbing man's forehead. Monroe set his ears forward like the black bullhorns of a devil, his eyes glimmering crimson in the moonlight. His desire for more blood, organs, meat was so keen on his tongue, he could practically feel the ache in his belly to tear out this man's throat, taste the last screams to leave his dying body. Monroe's whole body _trembled _with the desire, a rush coursing through his veins like a shot of heroin.

But something held him back.

'_Kill,' _the word echoed again, but not as a command. As a warning. He could hear Nick's voice in the distance, on the cusp of his awakening conscience urging him to back down. Thoughts began to filter back into Monroe's mind at an alarming speed. Memories, motives, realization. Suddenly he remembered everything about the man under his two, thick paws. Who he was and why Monroe was killing him.

Monroe pulled his head back slowly, budding horror at what he'd done crossing his mind. There was no denying what this man had done to Nick, what he probably deserved, but he was human and somewhere he had family, someone who would come looking for his mangled corpse and trace him back to Nick somehow. Monroe could never let Nick, someone who had already suffered enough, be blamed for the death of someone who had tormented him so much already. And Monroe couldn't protect Nick in prison; he couldn't protect Nick from the wesen who wanted to kill him, from the Reapers, from any man who came along next and thought Nick no better than a chair to sit on or a dog to be kicked. Protecting Nick was stronger than any killing instinct inside of Monroe. It overruled every thought in his animalistic mind. Nick was the most human part of him, _if _the only human part of him left. He had to protect Nick, even if that meant letting this bastard live.

Monroe felt his body flickering as his humanity slowly began to return. His body wanted to woge, if even to a more humanlike state, but he held back. The more humanness that threatened to break free, the harder it was for him to maintain his full transformation and the sleek, fully fledged body of his ancestors.

Reluctantly, Monroe lifted one paw, then another as he stepped away from the man. He wasn't sure what to do. Maybe he'd call Hank and just flat out tell him what he'd done. After all, Hank _had _asked him to deal with the problem, just not how. Explaining the injuries would be interesting, but… nothing he couldn't worm his way out of.

Just as Monroe began to turn to head towards the house to check on Nick, he was suddenly struck across the muzzle hard with a fist. Was the man an idiot? His eyes flashed the color of blood as he pounced, his jaw clamping down on the juncture between throat and shoulder, teeth digging into bone as he tugged, one paw bearing down against ribs, the other gritted against dry, black soil.

There was a sudden _pop_ as bone and cartilage separated, a gurgling sound followed by a last, shuddering breath. Monroe froze, his whole body going ice cold as everything went still. A feeling of déjà vu flooded his brain. He recognized this scene. It was from his dream. It'd somehow become real. He'd _let _it become real.

_Oh, god,_ his mind pleaded with horror as he took in a single, ragged breath, his whole body trembling. He'd truly fucked up. He'd forgotten exactly how _easy _it was to kill humans; how fragile they truly were. Slowly his jaw slackened, the body slumping to the ground with a light thud. The blood, once sweet, soured in his mouth as he stared down at his handiwork. He couldn't… believe what he'd just done, how he'd lost control of himself in the last seconds. He hadn't meant to… He'd only meant to protect Nick.

But he'd enjoyed it! His brain couldn't forget, couldn't bury the pleasure he'd derived. It wasn't just whom his victim had been, but the process involved.

He liked killing humans.

Tail tucked between his legs and his head down, Monroe stepped far away from the lifeless body and began to pace. Oh, god, what would he do? He couldn't leave the body on Nick's property. It was the first place the police would go looking for him. The field would cover up a good deal of the struggle, but any decent forensics team would be able to uncover the blood with little difficulty. Hell, they may even notice the scuffled gravel from where the other man had taken off sprinting.

He was screwed. They were screwed. Oh, god, he'd fucked everything up in one impulsive move!

Distraught, Monroe slumped towards the house, his body easily reverting to its human form, his clothing hanging from his frame in tattered shreds. He hadn't noticed the fabric tearing at the time of his transformation. He wasn't surprised; with his inhuman strength, clothes were more like tissue paper than any real physical binding. It was hardly a moment for humor, but Monroe wondered if the man had noticed the ferocious wolf had worn clothing. Or would that have been an extraneous detail? Perhaps. Most certainly, he mused.

With reluctance, Monroe stumbled out of the field, the earth rough under his bare feet. His shoes had slipped off somewhere; he couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. Seemed to be another extraneous detail when he considered the gravity of the situation. The fact that he'd just _murdered _someone.

Slowly he approached the house, his trepidation bordering on fear. He couldn't forget the smell of Nick's blood on the other man; it'd been the thing to set him off in the first place. Part of him worried that Nick too could be dead. The front door was locked and when Nick failed to open the door after several loud, pounding knocks, Monroe rounded the house and slipped in through his usual entrance: the cellar door with the broken hinges. He shuffled through a narrow path between two towering stacks of boxes and made his way to the basement stairs, each step causing his fear to heighten.

Though fear chased him through the house, it also held him back. It hadn't taken much for Monroe to lose sight of himself and tear into human flesh after years of abstinence. What would he do when he found Nick and he wasn't dead, but merely injured, possibly bleeding out? He'd attacked out of vengeance the first time, killed out of animalistic enjoyment; was it possible for him to still hope to protect Nick when he was presented with such an easy kill?

To be honest, a large part of him didn't want to find Nick at all; he just wanted to leave and genuinely hope for the best, but he knew he had to at least check before he forced himself out of the house all together. Nick could seriously need help.

When Monroe opened the door to the upstairs, he cursed his heightened, Blutbaden senses. Even from the other side of the house he could smell Nick's blood seeping in through the cracks like a venomous gas. It was pungent and terrifying. When he finally reached the living room, it was hard not to fear the worst as he found blood _everywhere_. Smeared on the floor, on the furniture, on the fireplace mantle. He couldn't even begin to imagine what had transpired there. And far too much of the blood was Nick's. To Monroe's relief, at least he wasn't beset with a ravenous appetite for more; instead he was petrified at the very real prospect of finding another mutilated corpse strung up like a deer in the rafters.

Nose on overload, Monroe searched frantically through the house for the smaller man. A moment later he found Nick in the bathroom, curled up under a towel in a shivering mess on the freezing tile. There was a moment of shock and hesitation as he took in the sight and the extent of the Grimm's injuries. He was… honestly surprised. He'd feared it certainly, but honestly he hadn't believed it quite possible. He'd seen Nick roughed up before, but Nick was strong and seasoned, had taken on wesen even Monroe was hesitant to face. But still, how could Monroe have let this happen?

Monroe stooped quickly to check for a pulse, to see if Nick was still breathing. At the tentative touch of Monroe's hand, Nick shrunk away reflexively. Monroe felt his shoulders relax just the slightest amount and a small smile spread across his lips. Nick was very much alive. He looked worse for wear, but he was still at least partially aware of his surroundings on a subconscious level; certainly a good sign. From a quick preliminary examination, Monroe couldn't find too many open wounds, another good sign, though he did worry about internal bleeding. The blood flowing from the gash on his forehead had stopped almost entirely, but it was wide enough that it would probably need stitches.

"Nick, Nick, hey," Monroe murmured as he stroked a thumb against Nick's cheek, the detective's head cradled in his hands. Nick's eyes fluttered before going still. "Nick? Come on, man, I need you to look at me," he said a bit louder. Nick's eyes fluttered again before they opened and looked up at him in bleary confusion.

"Hey there, sunshine. Look at you. You're a mess," Monroe choked out softly. "But I'm going to take care of you, alright? He's not going to hurt you anymore, okay?"

"Where've you been, asshole?" Nick mumbled, his words slurred as though through a drunken filter. It was more teasing than angry. Monroe choked on his laugh, a flood of guilt building in his chest.

"Sorry, I was late."

The edges of Nick's lips perked into a small smile before his body went slack once more with unconsciousness. Hands trembling, Monroe set Nick's head back down on the floor, resting it on the bath rug.

He stood quickly and frantically searched for a clean towel. Finding one under the sink, he immediately cranked the faucet on high. As he was dunking the edge under the flow of warm water, he happened to glance up at the mirror and spy his own reflection. It was a face he hadn't seen in a long time. His hair was more wild than usual and his irises still glowed red. It made the matching dark smears across his mouth and down the sides of his neck to the collar of his t-shirt more prominent. There were even flecks of blood in his beard. If someone saw him then, there wouldn't be a doubt in their mind. They'd know he was a killer.

Monroe splashed water onto his face and scrubbed frantically at his skin with the edge of the towel and with the bite of his fingernails, everything in him wishing to erase the night from his face. It remained even as the flush of pink water escaped down the drain. Letting out a tired breath, knowing there was little he _could _do, Monroe dunked the towel under the stream of hot water again, rising it clean, before turning to care for Nick, his eyes not meeting his own again.

He did his best to clean Nick's wounds before he applied an antiseptic he found under the sink. He found a self-suturing kit beside it as well and with shaking hands did his best to stitch the wound on Nick's forehead closed. He'd had experience in the past fixing up members of his family, but it'd been so long and the last person he'd hoped to demonstrate his skills on was the Grimm. He'd sort of always hoped it wouldn't come to this point, but here they were. His stitching job was sloppy at best, but it'd do until Monroe could get Nick to the hospital. Thankfully the smaller man remained unconscious for the most part, his eyelids fluttering occasionally and his head attempting to pull away from the needle at times. Monroe hated to see Nick in pain, but at least the guy was a fighter. Monroe was thankful for the well stocked medicine cabinet and the abundance of gauze and ointment (though he preferred his own to the human-made stuff). Monroe honestly hoped it was because Nick was a cop and a Grimm, not because of previous incidences just like this one. Taking the newly patched up Grimm in his arms, Monroe carried the smaller man's bruised and battered body up the stairs to bed.

"I'm so sorry, Nick," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion and remorse as images of what had probably happened before he'd arrived flashed through his mind. "I love you… God, I love you so much… I should have been here earlier… Hell, I should have killed him sooner," he laughed, the situation bittersweet as the guilt for his crime slid off of his shoulders.

Nick shifted in his arms, murmuring, "Monroe..?" just under his breath.

Monroe jumped at the sudden use of his name. He smiled down at the Grimm. Nick definitely recognized it was him.

"I'm here now," Monroe replied as he nuzzled his nose gently into the smaller man's hair. "I'm going to take care of you. I took care of that bastard. You're safe now."

He laid Nick out on the bed covers and, with a decent amount of shame, found a clean pair of sweatpants and underwear before stripping Nick down bare. He only felt sadness when he looked down at the detective's nude body. He seemed so much smaller than he used to. So fragile. It wasn't the Nick he'd met a year ago…

His heart aching, he dressed Nick with delicate hands before folding him into the covers, his hand stroking lovingly over the blanket cloaking his chest. Monroe found himself hesitating as he stared down at the Grimm. What next, he wondered uneasily. He had yet to feel any desire to rip out Nick's throat and take a taste, but he couldn't help but still fear an unexpected change of heart. He couldn't trust himself to be around the other man in such a weak state. Nick didn't smell as strongly of blood now that he was clean and changed, but Monroe still worried for good reason. But the longer he watched Nick shiver under the covers, the quicker his resolve crumbled. He knew he couldn't leave Nick the way he was. Even though he was definitely beyond awareness of what had happened, he was probably still fighting off shock. Without another moment of hesitation, Monroe flipped back the covers and crawled in beside Nick, shuffling the smaller man onto his uninjured side and pulling his hips back against his own. He pressed his chin into Nick's neck and held him lightly in his arms, willing his own heat to pass into Nick's frigid body.

It seemed to last for a long time, but eventually Nick's body stopped trembling as violently against the cold and relaxed, all of the tension melting out of him as he slumped back into Monroe's chest. When Monroe felt his eyelids grow heavy, the heat under the blankets feverous, Monroe knew it was time to leave. He couldn't stand his guilt any longer. It wasn't so much the feelings he'd felt towards Dean, but feelings of guilt for the suffering he'd put Nick through (inadvertently) and the suffering he still could evoke if given the chance.

Monroe bundled Nick up in the blankets tightly before he left him to his own devices, crossing to the other side of the house to the room he'd secretly been using for the past two weeks. Monroe would check on Nick later, of course, but first he had to ground himself and then deal with a few things. Dean's body, to be specific.

The room wasn't terrible, but it was certainly dated. The walls were covered in peeling, flowered wallpaper, the base molding a yellowing white and the furniture dusty. Though the room lacked a proper bed, behind more towering boxes of books and other useless junk was a beat-up, fraying chaise lounge. It was really too short for him and his legs (when not folded under his butt) tended to hang off of the edge, but he found it was far better than sleeping on the floor. The reason he'd initially chosen this room in particular instead of a different one with a bed was because of the location. It was the farthest (useable) room located from Nick's bedroom and had seemed at the time the safest place for Monroe to hide. It took only a few days for Monroe to discover that he wouldn't be caught though; it was in the older part of the house, the part Nick (and his now deceased lover) never ventured into. Most likely because even though the occupied portion of the house was cluttered, it couldn't possibly hold a candle to this side of the house. Monroe had even discovered some structural damage from the massive hoard bearing down on the floors from one of his numerous clandestine explorations.

Monroe let himself fall back onto the plush chaise, his knees curled over the edge and his feet flat on the floor as he stared listlessly up at the ceiling, praying for an answer to his problems to come. Praying for it all to just be a dream. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but between 3:00 and 4:00 AM, he rose to his feet and went to Nick's bedroom one more time. After he was positive Nick was still breathing and doing relatively well, he bundled him up extra tight before making the solitary trek down the stairs and out to the field to finish what he'd started. Several thoughts ran through his mind, but first he had to get the body far away from Nick's house.

He was honestly surprised his brain was functioning at all and that he'd remembered to grab a pair of latex gloves from the first aid kit as he bent to take hold the wretched, stinking body. He slung the lifeless lump over his shoulder before shuffling back out of the grass and towards his own car. He was halfway there when something shiny caught his eye. He dropped the body to the ground unceremoniously before approaching for a better look.

It was the dead man's wallet and keys. He flicked the wallet open once and stared down at the man's license.

_Deon. Guess I've been calling you by the wrong name, _he thought with misplaced amusement as he stuffed the wallet and keys into his pocket. He returned to the body, stooping quickly to take hold of it, he threw it over his shoulder once more. It was pointless to try and prevent even more blood from saturating his clothes. He'd have to burn them later, which was too bad because he was actually quite fond of the flannel.

With more care than he probably deserved, Monroe lifted the dead man into the passenger's seat of his car, the body slumping over against the door like an intoxicated friend when he closed it again. It was rather pathetic looking. Unless someone spotted the blood on his clothes, anyone passing by would assume just that. But it was dark; who would notice?

For a long time, Monroe just drove, unsure of what to do or how to proceed. Should he dig a grave? Or just toss him in the river? Should he… _burn him_? He'd have to deal with the man's car too eventually, but it could wait until the next night. He had at least 48 hours, if not more before someone would report him missing. Nick certainly wouldn't. In the past, Monroe had had a pack to call upon. People he could depend on to help him conceal and get rid of bodies without hesitation. But now it was up to him to deal with it. Hell, Nick probably would have been a great partner to have in this, but right now Nick was likely a hair's breadth away from a coma because of this stupid, rotting corpse next to him.

Suddenly filled with a flush of anger, Monroe slowed to stop under a highway overpass as he gripped the steering wheel tightly in his hands, his mind racing. Traffic was nonexistent at the moment. He couldn't see any traffic cameras. He didn't smell any vagrants. So he just leaned over the dead body, opened the door and pushed. The man sort of just slumped onto the side of the road with a hollow thud. Immediately shame filled Monroe's heart. He loathed the man, would kill him all over again if there were no consequences, but it was such an undignified, sacrilegious thing to do to a body. Even when he'd hunted, he'd had the decency to dig graves and give a somewhat decent burial to his victims.

So Monroe got out and dragged the body onto the sidewalk before he got back into his car and sped away before anyone happened to come around the bend and see him.

After he'd driven for a few miles, he regretted it. How stupid was he? Anyone could find the body now! Jesus Christ! Was he incapable of forethought? But there was nothing he could do about it now. He couldn't go back; he could only keep going forward. So he drove. And drove. He drove south for a long time before he began heading back west and north towards Portland, towards home. Since he was paranoid anyone might see him, he parked down the street in front of an empty lot and braved the tangle of blackberry bushes and overgrown weeds until he could get behind his own yard and jump the fence. He didn't sense anyone out and about, though it was a quarter to 5:00 AM so who would he likely see? Even the earliest risers of his neighbors didn't normally venture out until 6 o'clock.

After Monroe was showered and changed he went through the whole process of sneaking out again before he was back on the road to Nick's. Without thinking, Monroe found himself parking in his usual spot behind the barn. He thought of Deon's car again still parked in the driveway. He'd have to get rid of it somehow. Drive it into the river or pawn it off to some wesen junk yard worker who knew a thing or two about making that sort of thing disappear for a price.

Even if it cost him a small fortune, he'd make sure he kept their asses out of prison.

* * *

For the rest of the night, Monroe stayed with Nick, curled up beside the injured man under the blankets making sure he was kept very warm and woke him every hour or so to make sure he hadn't slipped into a coma or anything worse. It was probably ridiculous and overkill since Nick woke every time, but just seeing Nick's eyes peering up at him vaguely made it seem like things had a chance of working out. Each time Monroe would gently stir him awake, a hand combing through the hair above his ear and a rather loud, "Nick," to get him started. Nick would open his beautiful silver eyes and stare up at him for awhile, as though regarding him fondly, before blinking several times and going back to sleep. Monroe knew he should consider taking Nick to the hospital or even to Rosalee, but he was terrified of leaving the house and somehow getting caught for murder before he knew Nick was entirely in the clear. In the morning, they'd set out. Until then he'd have to rely on his own nurturing instincts to care for Nick.

Around 11:00 AM, Monroe decided to head downstairs for awhile. Nick was showing signs of waking soon and seemed to be doing relatively fine given the situation. Monroe had already replaced Nick's bandages with fresh ones and had applied more ointment so the Grimm should be set for the time being. Monroe would contact Rosalee in a bit to see what sort of medicine Nick should take to help him heal and deal with the pain. The poor detective's face was a mess of bruises; his pale skin a mesh of dark purples and blues. The swelling had encompassed much of the right side of his face causing his features to look distorted and out of proportion. Monroe really should drag him to the hospital…

Just as Monroe was turning off the faucet in the downstairs bathroom and contemplating what to cook Nick for breakfast, he heard some movement above his head. Nick was awake. But instead of searching the other man out and greeting him right away as he should, Monroe hesitated and kept just out of sight as the other man slowly made his way down to the second floor. Monroe watched in silence as Nick hunted around the house for a bit, but by the way he searched - his eyes kept low, Monroe knew he wasn't looking for him. He stalked quietly after Nick as the younger man headed into the kitchen and watched, his head stuck just around the doorframe, as Nick stopped dead in the middle of the room, his eyes trained on the floor.

_Ah_, Monroe thought with reserve as his own eyes followed suit. So that's what Nick had been searching for. Then it struck him. He felt his stomach drop through the floor underneath him as he took in the sight of the scattered pieces of Nick's phone. He dragged a hand over his jaw, realization rooting him to the spot as he remembered the call he'd made the night before.

_Oh, Jesus._

Nick scooped the pieces into his hand and unceremoniously tossed them into a _Ziplock _bag, leaving it there on the counter before wandering into the living room and throwing himself onto the couch. He'd yet to call out for Monroe, and that gave the blutbad pause. He… knew Monroe was there, right? The longer Monroe watched, the more he realized with unease that Nick didn't remember him being there at all from the night before. He listened as Nick made several calls on a different phone (a spare? Deon's?); he listened as Nick called in sick, lied to Hank, and then eventually called Rosalee. Even then, Nick wasn't forthright. He made up some vague story about getting jumped, not quite saying a wesen did it, but not _not _implying it at the same time. Monroe wanted to growl, but he couldn't bring himself to announce his presence either. Not after…

He knew with a sinking heart that none of this would have happened if he'd only kept his mouth shut. At least it wouldn't have happened this way. Nick would be fine. And happy. Deon would be alive still. Everything would be better if Monroe hadn't said a word.

* * *

When he heard the front door slam and watched Nick leave from out the window of his borrowed bedroom, Monroe let out a relieved sigh. He sunk onto the chaise lounge and let his head drop into his hands. What was he going to do? What could possibly be done?

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark and in the distance he could hear the murmur of the television in the living room. He hadn't expected to pass out and sleep for as long as he had, and when he checked his wristwatch, he saw that it was almost 10:00 PM. He'd missed his opportunity to slip out of the house undetected. He hadn't realized he was quite as exhausted as he was; the full transformation had really taken a lot out of him. Not to mention the other thing…

He rolled over on the chaise lounge, his back protesting with the sudden movement and his joints sore. He'd give anything for a real bed. Anything to cuddle up to Nick again…

In the morning when Nick left for work, he'd escape.

* * *

Nick wasn't going to work. He wasn't leaving the house, period. The younger man spent almost all of his time camped out in the living room on the couch watching television. Monroe didn't blame him; the poor kid had taken a helluva beating and deserved a period of rest. Unfortunately, Monroe was getting really hungry and being cooped up in pretty much one room all day, day after day, was getting pretty tiring. Sometimes he wandered and poked through dusty boxes, but when he'd almost been caught by Nick and had to spend an hour cramped inside the linen closet in an extremely awkward position, he relegated himself back to the safety of his own room.

Monroe knew he should just come out with it and tell Nick he was in the house, or just let himself get caught, but the longer he stayed there, the harder it became to find an appropriate way of saying it or letting Nick know he was there. He realized it wasn't necessarily _required _of him to divulge exactly _how _long he'd been sneaking into the house; he could honestly keep mum about how many times he'd wandered through uninvited, poked through things and how many times he'd intentionally spooked Nick's (former) boyfriend. All he really had to tell Nick was that he'd been there since the fight…

…and that he'd somehow murdered the man and had ditched him off the side of the freeway too. Oh, and that he'd pretty much caused the whole fight to begin with that nearly ended up in Nick's death. Yeah, that was probably an important thing to mention (even if it didn't somehow just come up in conversation on its own).

He'd yet to see hide or hair of the police on the premises, which was a good thing, but eventually some conclusions had to be drawn. The sooner Nick knew what had really happened, the sooner they could figure out how to avoid prison (for hopefully both their sakes).

And besides, it was complete torture to hear Nick cry by himself and not be able to comfort him.

* * *

Knowing and doing were still two completely separate things. He knew he should do it, but he couldn't bring himself to get too close to Nick. He still didn't quite trust himself to be near Nick. He'd killed that other man so easily; what if Nick _wanted _to send him away for the murder? Monroe didn't _want _to go to prison. He certainly didn't want Nick to, but he'd fight his way out of the country to avoid it if at all possible. What if he just… lost control of himself again and Nick wound up dead too? After everything?

Nick still smelled like blood, antiseptic and sick. Not an ideal dinner, but weak and vulnerable. A kill purely for fun.

* * *

Monroe awoke early the next morning to the sound of Nick's car starting and driving away. He wasn't sure how long Nick would be gone, if he was actually in fact going to work or just out for a bit, but nonetheless, Monroe hurried out of the house and on his way home to stuff his face, shower and change his clothes, and take care of the 'Ben Situation.' All week, almost nonstop, Ben had sent him text after text, call after call wondering where he was and when he was coming by again. If Monroe didn't know Ben better, he'd think the kid lonely, but he was just horny, something that ranked remarkably low on Monroe's list of things to worry about. And after one of Ben's calls almost resulted in him getting caught by Nick, he'd ended up turning his phone off for the most part, which only made Ben's curiosity grow.

* * *

"There you are," Ben practically yelled when he opened the door and stared up at Monroe's tired form. "What the hell? I've been texting, calling… I even went by your house." Which was a huge step for someone like Ben who was normally _above _house calls. "Please tell me you at least spent the week entwined with Nick on a down feather bed, sucking chocolate off each other's - "

"Not quite," Monroe interrupted before Ben could get too graphic. He pushed past Ben and stood awkwardly in the foyer, his eyes darting around the downstairs.

Ben seemed to read his thoughts and said as he shut the door, "She's not here. But seriously, Monroe, you're back together with him now, right?"

"Uh… not quite," Monroe answered softly.

Ben's face sobered, his expression reflecting the one Monroe wore. "Then what happened? You've been gone for so long…" he asked softly.

Monroe hummed and hawed as he considered how much to tell Ben about what had happened. What he could tell him without incriminating himself too badly. Hell, he was already screwed.

"I had a talk with Nick's boyfriend. Safe to say he won't be giving Nick anymore trouble."

"Well, good for you," Ben congratulated, but his expression didn't change. "But why exactly aren't you two running off and eloping now that the big, bad wolf is out of the picture?"

Monroe would laugh if things weren't so serious. "Nick doesn't know I had anything to do with it."

"So he just up and left?"

"More or less."

"Why don't you just tell him?"

"Because… Nick wasn't too happy about it. He's been crying a lot over it."

"Please tell me you're not still camped out inside his house without him even knowing it." At Monroe's guilty look, Ben shouted, "Jesus Christ, Monroe! That's… actually sick. I think you need help. And I'm not just being facetious and I'm seriously not joking. I'm genuinely concerned about you." And from the look on the younger man's face, Monroe could tell he was.

"You can't keep breaking into his house like that. It's _illegal_. I know I egged you into it in the first place, even got you to go back a second time-" Which was true. "-but I didn't imagine you'd continue to do it without getting back together with him as the end result."

Monroe felt even more ashamed now that his biggest supporter thought he needed serious mental help. Hell, he probably did. He'd murdered a man in cold blood (well, he'd probably feel a bit better if that's all it'd been - if he hadn't _enjoyed _it). Ben was right. He needed to get out of there sooner rather than later, as soon as he knew Nick was in the clear.

"I'm not sure I'm going to go back," Monroe confessed. "I want to make sure Nick's okay, but you're right. It's gotta stop."

Ben smiled sadly. "It's never too late, you know? You can still tell him. You can still have your fairy tale ending. It doesn't have to end here because Nick's broken up over some abusive douchebag."

If only Ben knew the half of it, he wouldn't be saying that. He'd probably be calling the cops. Not to mention it was Monroe's fault, more or less, that Nick was beaten as badly as he was in the first place. Sort of put a damper on the whole 'romantic' side of things.

"I'm gonna go," Monroe muttered as he started to back towards the door. Ben nearly fell out of his chair as he lunged to grab hold of his arm. Maybe he sensed the finality of everything between them as well.

"You just got here. Stay a bit. Have lunch. We could watch TV for awhile…"

There was a hint of desperation. Disgustingly, it made Monroe feel better to have been missed even just a little bit. But he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to expose himself to Ben. Ben was vulnerable. Another easy kill. He couldn't even run if he wanted to.

"Where _is_ your grandmother?" Monroe asked pointedly.

"She won't be back for several hours. Bingo." Ben's eyes looked pained when he practically begged, "Please stay?"

Monroe couldn't help himself, and Ben knew it; the moment the younger man gave him that look, he was all over him, carrying him off to the downstairs bedroom. The touches seemed softer, sadder. So final. The subsequent lovemaking was even slower and gentler than usual, causing Ben to murmur with painful clarity, "This is a goodbye fuck, isn't it?"

Monroe stared into the blonde's eyes. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's fine. Let's make it count then."

Afterwards, when Monroe went to move from the bed, Ben stopped him. Monroe looked down at the man cuddled up by his side.

"Can we just… stay like this for awhile?"

"Yeah, that would be nice," Monroe replied as he settled back into the mattress. He felt Ben's grip on him tighten, his own throat constricting slightly with the degree of emotion the younger man was showing.

It was clear to him then that Ben had cared for him all along. It was too bad it was too late.

* * *

"We can still be friends though, right?" Ben asked as Monroe started out the front door an hour later. The blutbad turned back to look at him. He was surprised how small the other man seemed there, and how lonesome.

"Of course."

It was a lie, and Ben seemed to realize it as his lips drew into a firm, solid line. He nodded his head once before he closed the door; the resounding echo of the latch catching sent Monroe down the steps in a flurry. Even from the bottom of the steps and through the heavy oak door he could still hear Ben cry. It was difficult for him to keep walking, to not go back, but Monroe knew the younger man would be safer the farther away he was. And he would be fine. He was starting school in a couple of months. He'd find plenty of people his own age who were more suitable than he ever could be.

_You don't need me anyway._

* * *

With purpose, Monroe drove to Nick's house. It would be the last time. He was later getting back than he'd planned on, almost midnight. He'd spent most of the night at home, staring absently at the TV as he tried to formulate some sort of speech he could give to the detective that would make his actions seem somewhat forgivable. He hadn't come up with much. Normally he'd assume it'd be too late to confront Nick - in which it really was - but Nick rarely went to bed before 1:00 AM so there was a good chance he was still awake.

Monroe approached the door with trepidation; what could he expect from Nick? Then again, he didn't _have _to be honest. There was no reason he _had _to admit to how long he'd been staying inside of the house without the other's knowledge. He could just… fudge that part.

He raised his hand and knocked. The house was dead quiet in response. He knocked again. Again nothing. Nick was home, he saw his vehicle in the driveway. Perhaps he really was asleep…

Just to be sure, Monroe crept around the house towards the cellar door. The light emanating from the studio caught his eye though.

When Monroe peered through the window, he nearly lost his footing. There on the cold cement floor stripped down to only his boxers lay Nick, covered head to toe in blood. Monroe's heart stopped as he stared, horrified. Most of the blood seemed to stem from Nick's arms; at his side lay a blood soaked palette knife. What had he done…? Nick couldn't have been this distraught over…

Monroe lunged for the unlocked backdoor; he crossed the room in seconds and stooped to touch Nick with trembling hands. He grabbed for one of Nick's arms to examine the wounds, to see if there was any way to stop the bleeding.

When he over turned the arm, he was stunned by the lack of a gaping wound.

Then the pungent odor of acrylic paint hit him. It wasn't blood, but… paint? Dark, crimson paint? Seriously?

Monroe sat back on his heels and almost keeled with laughter. He couldn't believe he'd panicked like that. If it'd truly been blood, he would have been able to smell it long before then. Monroe wiped a tear from his eye as he stared fondly down at the passed out detective. Honestly, nothing really explained _why _Nick was sleeping on the floor, but at least it was out of sheer exhaustion and not a suicide attempt or a murder.

Monroe grabbed up a dingy towel from the stool set beside the red smeared canvas Nick had obviously been working on and tried his best to wipe off the paint from the detective's skin. When it stubbornly refused to be smeared away, Monroe gave up and ditched the towel before rolling Nick onto his back and scooping him up into his arms like a limp child. The Grimm murmured something once as he adjusted his head on the blutbad's shoulder before settling once more.

"You ass. You nearly gave me a heart attack," Monroe complained affectionately as he carried Nick towards the stairs. "Next time, paint with blue or some other non-blood related color. I'm too old for these sort of surprises."

Nick obviously didn't comment, already dead to the world outside of his dreams.

* * *

After Monroe tucked Nick into bed - he hoped the paint wouldn't somehow stain the sheets - Monroe returned to the studio to truly examine what Nick had been painting.

It was another abstract; this one was a mess of red on yellow and white. There was a touch of black in one corner. Monroe wondered what it meant. Like all of Nick's other paintings, it was rather nice to look at. But he honestly hoped the red didn't symbolize blood, though he had a feeling (a pit feeling) that it had something to do with the whole situation concerning Deon.

* * *

Monroe had planned on ending his illegal squatting in the house, but Nick's behavior took a turn for the downright weird and he found himself justifying his continued stay.

Nick _needed _him.

Within a relatively sort amount of time, the younger man had developed this strange habit of falling asleep in weird places. Once on the stairs, once in the overly crowded upstairs office, and once just outside of his bedroom door like he'd been meaning to go to bed, but had never quite made it all the way inside. For the most part, Nick tended to fall asleep in his studio after spending several hours painting (or in his recent fashion, angrily _throwing _paint at the canvas). Just about every night Monroe would find the young detective slumped onto the freezing cement, out cold. Monroe would then scoop Nick up into his arms and take him to bed, extra careful of the Grimm's various healing injuries, and would spend the next hour or so sitting at the end of the bed watching over him just to make sure he was okay.

After nearly a week of this, the sheets of Nick's bed were an interesting pattern of colors. He loved Nick, but god was the kid slow. For a detective, he didn't seem quite able to connect A and B together. A being: Nick falling asleep in weird places that weren't his bed, and B, finding himself in bed in the morning. Maybe he thought he sleepwalked…?

Monroe still felt he should come clean, but things were getting progressively worse. Nick was growing more and more careless about his own safety. By the second week, he no longer remembered to lock doors or windows, sometimes he even left the back one to his studio open for any strange sort of creature to come wandering in. There was no way Monroe could leave him alone this way. Anything could attack him. And falling asleep wherever he pleased without care? Nick would get himself killed out of sheer _negligence_ the moment Monroe stepped away and left him to his own devices.

The problem had grown so troubling to Monroe that he'd secretly moved in full time. Nick never ventured into the older part of the house so he was pretty safe to wander even during the day when Nick was home. He kept for himself a dresser stocked full of his clothing; he'd re-plugged in the refrigerator in the unused kitchen and kept it stocked with food and even a few luxuries like his favorite German beers. He'd even cleaned out one of the extra rooms when Nick was at work and converted it into a usable bedroom, complete with his own (decently functioning and _clean_) bathroom. It still wasn't ideal since he couldn't outright _speak _to Nick, but it was a start. The only time Monroe got to see Nick up close was those few moments it took for the blutbad to locate the Grimm and take him upstairs to bed.

It wasn't nearly enough, but beggars couldn't be choosers, he supposed.

It'd honestly gotten to the point where Monroe considered calling Hank and having the older detective do something about it. Nick needed serious, psychiatric help to deal with everything that had happened. Obviously something deep inside of him had broken or gone terribly awry. The sleeping problem was such a common occurrence Monroe thought about keeping track (if only to convince Hank of the severity of the situation).

* * *

One night though, after nearly two weeks of silence, something changed. Something happened that drove all thoughts of contacting the older detective far from his mind. It was ridiculously stupid of him, but when Nick murmured, _"Don't leave… I miss you," _Monroe was so overcome with sentimentality he found himself crawling into bed beside the younger man for the first time since he'd found Nick in a bloodied mess. He knew in his heart Nick was calling out for Deon - he wasn't calling out for him - but he'd take what he could get. It was only a matter of time before he'd forget Nick's face. His voice. Everything about him when he finally left.

He spent the night watching Nick and the shadows as they slipped and faded across his skin. When the morning came, he was hidden away once again.

* * *

The next day, Nick was naked. It was his day off, and after his shower, Nick just paraded around the house in the nude, never bothering to change into proper clothing or put on a towel. It wasn't entirely unexpected, he'd spent most of the week before in varying degrees of undress, it was just a bit distracting. Nick spent a good deal of the day in the living room, even dozed off at one point and lay completely vulnerable on the couch. Monroe couldn't help the voyeuristic part of him that watched for moments at a time before forcing himself to leave. He hated himself a little more each time.

But at times it felt almost deliberate, but it was impossible. Nick couldn't know he was there. If he'd known, wouldn't he have said something by then? He'd never seen Nick skulking around the house looking for clues and as far as he knew, Nick had never found his car tucked behind the barn. He hardly _ever _went outside and rarely ventured around his own property. It helped that Monroe was extra careful and only came and went when the detective was away at work. As far as he could tell, his secret was still safe.

But… was Nick connecting the dots…? But no… It couldn't be possible because Nick should hate him. Should be hunting him down and putting a bullet through his skull. By now Nick had to know Deon was dead, and from the damning injuries, there was only one person it could be.

* * *

Nick's sleeping habits hadn't changed much, though he seemed to be finding his own way to bed more often, but that didn't change Monroe from developing a bad habit of his own. It would be one thing if Monroe only stooped so low as to crawl into bed with Nick the once, but it was another thing entirely when it became a nightly occurrence. Every night when Monroe either, a.) took Nick up to bed himself, or b.) Nick was dead asleep, Monroe would gently ease himself into bed beside the younger man and curl up against his back, his chin resting protectively in the curve of the other's shoulder, a loose hand thrown over his hip. Monroe tried to never fall asleep himself so as not to be caught, but just incase he started setting an alarm an hour and a half before Nick's own alarm went off. The tone he set was out of the range of human hearing, so Nick couldn't possibly be woken by it. So far it was a pretty good system with no failures thus far. For a cop (and a Grimm), Nick was a pretty heavy sleeper, but it gave Monroe a few precious hours with the other man, even if some of them were spent sleeping.

He wondered what the Grimm would think of him if he knew.

It was such a dangerous thing for Monroe to do when the other man was completely defenseless. Monroe could do _anything. _He was less worried about perversion compared to something more heinous like mauling, but it was disgusting. It was a violation of Nick for him to cuddle up behind him, spoon him in his sleep when Nick subconsciously believed it to be someone else.

Nick was his crack. His addiction. But he had to cut himself off eventually.

Alarm set, Monroe let himself slip off for one last hour of peaceful rest before the morning came when he'd have to force himself to leave once and for all.

* * *

He knew something was wrong when his mind came to. It was far too light beyond his eyelids. He'd somehow missed his wake up call.

_Oh, god, please don't let him be awake, _Monroe prayed frantically in his head. Though it was late, there was still a chance of sneaking out alright. When Monroe opened his eyes and a pair of silver ones stared back at him, Monroe knew with a sinking heart that his sick game was over.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Nick greeted softly with a smile instead of the expected indignant cry. Monroe blinked several times before he managed:

"You… You too."

"I need to take a piss. Promise not to leave?"

"Uh, yeah," Monroe answered in disbelief, nodding his head slowly. When Nick rose from the bed, he noticed the familiar green material of the shirt Nick was wearing, entirely different from what he'd worn to bed. Monroe's heart skipped a beat. How long had Nick known? He watched as the Grimm slipped out of the room into the adjoining bathroom as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Almost like this was a normal, daily morning occurrence. A few minutes later Nick returned and slipped back under the covers with ease, a look of fondness on his features as he stared back at the blutbad still in his bed.

Monroe was flabbergasted.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Nick asked in that lovely voice of his. Traces of the battering weeks earlier remained on his face, but it could never tarnish his beauty.

"Whatever, I guess," Monroe answered lamely, still not completely sure he was even awake. _Was he still asleep…?_

Nick disappeared again; moments later Monroe could hear him banging around in the kitchen. Eventually the smell of bacon and eggs wafted up the stairs to him, followed not too much later by the Grimm himself. Monroe sat up as Nick handed him a plate of the aforementioned along with a side of warmed, pre-packaged hash browns and toast. He'd really gone all out, or as far out as a man with little to no talent in the kitchen could.

"Sorry if it's bland. I'm not much of a cook," the other man apologized as he began to eat. It was true that it wasn't gourmet or even the way Monroe would have made it, but it tasted phenomenal all the same if only because Nick had made it for him. After everything.

"It's great," Monroe answered honestly.

They ate in silence for an uncomfortably long time until Monroe couldn't take it any longer. He set his plate down on the side table and turned to look at the dark haired man beside him, concern evident on his face. Nick eyed him with a look of suspicion and nervous hesitation as he copied Monroe and set his plate down as well.

"How long have you known?" Monroe asked when he'd finally worked up the nerve to voice his thoughts.

"'Known…?' About what?"

"Me. Being here," Monroe clarified, his finger gesturing weakly to the shirt Nick was wearing.

Nick glanced down once before he laughed, the smile on his face truly genuine. "Two, two and a half weeks, maybe? But you've been here for a lot longer than that, haven't you?"

Monroe's eyes dropped to his lap, embarrassed. He scratched the back of his neck before he met Nick's eyes again.

"Yeah."

Nick didn't say anything, maybe he was thinking of something _to _say, but Monroe couldn't help but sputter, his tone bordering on frustration, "But why, Nick? Why haven't you…?"

"Why haven't I…? What? Said anything?" Nick supplied, his brow raised. "Why didn't _you _say anything? You're the one breaking and entering and trespassing on private property. Of the two of us, I don't think I'm the one in the wrong here."

Monroe nodded his head; he deserved that much. He quickly got out of bed and begun to pace back and forth anxiously, no longer comfortable just sitting there next to Nick like nothing was wrong. The dark haired man watched him for a minute from his spot on the bed before he too was standing.

"Monroe…?"

"I just… it was hard to face you after everything I did," Monroe confessed quickly, his arms nearly flailing at his sides. "After I… after everything I did to you."

"Did _what_?" Nick asked honestly as though he wasn't exactly sure which thing Monroe was referring to. Considering everything Monroe had done or put Nick through in the last few months, it wasn't a huge surprise. So Monroe was going to have to be specific, even if it was the last thing he wanted to say. He'd start with the big one; where it'd all gone wrong.

He forced himself to stop moving and look Nick directly in the eyes. But all that came out was, "You know."

But Nick… didn't. The Grimm stared back at him in blank confusion, his shoulders shrugging slightly. "Ignoring me?" Nick offered. "'Cause I'll agree; that was pretty dick-ish."

"Ah, yeah," Monroe found himself apologizing. "Sorry about the phone thing… forgot to pay my bill…"

"Yeah, I heard. I tried calling. Almost drunk-texted you. Wasn't pretty."

"Yeah, I bet not," Monroe laughed. He quickly sobered. _What the hell am I doing? _

"That's not what I meant. I mean…" Monroe scratched the back of his neck nervously. "There's something I've been wondering for awhile now… It was consensual?"

Nick stared up at him, his eyes searching. After a moment of silence, Nick failing to respond and another look of blatant confusion passing across his face, he said, "What?" His dark brows creased even further. "Wait… Are you asking _me_?"

Monroe couldn't help but stumble back a step in disbelief. "Of course I'm asking you! What the hell did you think I meant?"

"Well, I'm confused," Nick answered honestly, a touch of irritation pervading his voice. "Why would you ask _me _that? I initiated it. I brought the condoms. Why are you asking me whether it was consensual or not? I thought that was obvious. Or are you talking about something else… You mean the last two weeks..?"

"No, not the last two weeks! Of course I'm talking about… you know, that… night," Monroe sputtered.

"The night where we had sex?" Nick asked slowly, his brow raised and a smirk on his face as though Monroe's reluctance to directly refer to it amused him. Monroe didn't give into the jibe.

"Yes. _That _night. But seriously, you… wanted it?"

Nick laughed. "Of course I did. I still do. What do you think I've been doing for the last two weeks? I don't walk around naked for nothing."

Monroe stared at him for a minute, his mouth agape as words failed to come forth to the front of his brain. He snorted as he shook his head back and forth slowly. "I wondered if that's what you were doing."

"Well, you were kind of acting like a creep, sneaking around my house. Thought I'd make it worthwhile."

Monroe slapped a hand to his forehead. Somehow Nick never ceased to amaze him in the strangest ways possible.

He dragged his hand over his face slowly, stopping just over his mouth to stare at Nick for a minute longer before he said anything further.

"I heard you put something in my mailbox," he finally said. "What was it? I've wondered now for months."

"Oh, _that_." Nick smiled a bit too deviously. "A delicious bottle of wine," he said, an unusually catty look on his face. "It was actually quite good. Too bad you couldn't have any. Probably some of the best wine I've ever tasted."

"You jerk," Monroe teased. Nick just smiled at him as though nothing had changed between them at all in the last several months. Maybe nothing had.

Eventually Monroe couldn't help but breathe out a laugh.

"What?" Nick asked, his face still stretched in a smile.

"Nothing. Just… somehow I imagined this moment differently. I thought it would end with me on the wrong end of your gun or… Well, I thought it would be a bit more romantic."

Something fiery flashed behind the Grimm's eyes before he lunged, the weight of his lithe body knocking Monroe backwards onto the bed. Nick slid the fingers of his left hand through the thick hair at the base of Monroe's neck, his whole fist tightening as he drew the blutbad's face towards his own, the tips of their noses just barely brushing. Monroe stared up into Nick's half-lidded eyes, the silver ones searching his own.

"How romantic do you want me to be?" Nick asked, his voice husky and raw, his breath hot against Monroe's mouth. The blutbad's whole body trembled as his blood coursed with pure lust.

"I want you," Monroe murmured. It was all Nick needed to hear as his eyelids slid shut, a pleased smile against his mouth.

The touch of Nick's lips against his own. It was electric. He could almost hear the sizzle of his nerve endings fraying under the touch of Nick's body against his own. He wound his arms around the smaller man's back, his hands touching and grabbing at every part of this man he'd been so in love with for months.

_Oh, my god. I can touch you, _he wanted to cry out loud. He'd waited for so long. Now it was real.

Nick's knees straddled his ribs, his arms curled around the blutbad's head, cradling his face in just a way that it could perfectly meld with his own. The flesh of Nick's palm against the side of his face was hot, the perfect amount of heat. His own hands slid and cupped over the curve of the Grimm's ass, fitting perfectly in his grip. He could feel himself growing impossibly hard, his body eager to relive the night that had torn them apart for so long for no reason. He wanted Nick. More than he'd ever wanted another person before.

He didn't want to pull away, could hardly bring himself to, but it was unfair when Nick didn't know the _complete _truth just yet. Nick had this image of Monroe in his head; one that wasn't quite right. It'd been consensual the first time. Would be so this time as well, but it would be wrong of him to let Nick think Monroe was some sort of romantic hero when he was nothing but a murderer. And when he'd caused Nick so much unintentional pain before hand as well.

As gently as Monroe could manage, he pushed Nick back by his shoulders, dislodging the younger man's mouth from his own. Nick quickly ducked his head again, intent to search it out once more, content to suckle along the length of thick neck instead when Monroe turned his face away. Monroe felt terrible when he had to force Nick completely away from him.

"What's up?" Nick asked with genuine concern, his brows furrowed as he swept a sleeve across his mouth to wipe away some stray saliva. "You okay?"

"We can't do this," Monroe replied, his tone sad. "It's… wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Monroe pushed Nick to sit up properly so they could face each other. He took Nick's hands in his own, his thumb rubbing lightly over the soft skin and just around the splint on Nick's right hand.

"Is it Rosalee?" Nick asked immediately, completely serious.

"What…?" Monroe replied just as quickly. What did Rosalee have to do with anything?

"Seriously, Monroe, you're giving me incredibly mixed signals, not to mention what we just did…" Nick finished, almost more to himself than anyone else, his eyes wide as he dislodged a hand from Monroe's and ran his fingers over his bottom lip.

"Can we just be honest?"

"What do you mean?" Monroe asked slowly. But it was the wrong thing to say.

Nick laughed in return, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. He wrenched his other hand free of Monroe's grasp as he leapt to his feet, wincing slightly as the sudden movement tugged at his broken fingers. It looked as though Nick wanted to hit Monroe, but instead he began to pace, his back tense and a furious look on his face. Monroe recognized this stance from weeks of observation: he was poised to fight. _Really fight. _He'd seen it plenty of times before when he'd spied Nick and Deon through the windows. Nick stopped suddenly to stare down at Monroe on the bed, his eyes narrowed and the muscles in his neck taut.

"Really? What do _I_ mean? You sneak into my bed at night. You do all sorts of things to me when you think I'm asleep, but at the same time it's suddenly _wrong_? Are you and Rosalee a thing, because I'm feeling extremely confused and really pissed off right now.

"I don't know how many times you want me to say it, but I wanted you that night all those months ago and I still want you now. If you want to be with me, _then just_ _be with me_," Nick practically yelled, his hands gesturing wildly and the look in his eyes pained."If not, we can still be friends, but I don't want to keep dancing around this like it never happened. If you don't want to be friends with me anymore, _fine_. If you think you owe me something, _you don't_.

"So no more of this bullshit," Nick pleaded. "I'm tired of it. If you're going to walk out on me, don't keep coming back. I was ready to move on, maybe with the wrong guy, but I can't keep doing this with you."

His eyes flashed once, the Grimm in him peering out through frosted, silver eyes.

"I'm done."

Monroe wasn't sure what look he was giving Nick, but the other man wilted under his gaze as he slowly approached to stand just in front of him.

"Monroe, _please_," Nick implored, his face a mixture of anxiety and pleading, no longer angry. He set his hands on Monroe's shoulders, his grip tightening just the slightest amount. "Please tell me what's going on. Please, _please _just be honest with me. I think I've proved that I can handle it."

Monroe was so weak to Nick's will; it was ridiculous. He placed his hands over Nick's hips, pulling the shorter man closer to stand between his legs, his knees bumping and brushing against Nick's bare skin. Nick lowered himself into Monroe's lap, his arms lightly slung across the taller man's shoulders, their forehead's touching. Monroe, careful of bumping Nick's nose, pressed his lips against the younger man's again. It was light and chaste. Not quite as heated as it was just moments ago.

"I want to be with you, Nick, I truly do, but I can't ignore my part in _this_," he finished morosely, his thumb lightly ghosting over the bruise on Nick's cheek, careful of pressing too hard.

Nick's brows furrowed. "With… what Deon did to me?" He snorted. "If you think you had anything to do with this, you might just have the world's worst conscience, you know."

When Monroe opened his mouth, Nick added, "You're not responsible for everything that happens to me, regardless if you feel like you should have been protecting me or something. It's not your fault. If anyone's to blame, it's Deon."

"But Nick, it _is _my fault."

"How?" Nick asked pointedly, the most incredulous look on his face.

"I… egged him into it," Monroe confessed, his head dropping. "I talked to him the night he did this to you."

"You… What?Called him and told him to beat me up so you could sweep in as some sort of prince to rescue me? 'Cause that would be really messed up," Nick joked, not quite believing Monroe.

"What?! No! Of course not! I… called you, and he just happened to pick up and I… just so happened to imply we were close and that I'd been… intimate with you on more than one occasion. Recently."

Nick laughed, then sobered as he guided Monroe's face to look up at him again. "Monroe, what Deon did to me is not your fault," he explained, "regardless if you'd spoken to him at all. You could have called him specifically to tell him I was about to, hell, I don't know, _propose marriage to him _and he'd still find a reason to do what he did to me. You're not responsible for the choices of others, Monroe. He is _not _a good person, simple as that."

"Was."

"What?"

"He was not a good person."

Nick's quirked a brow as he sat back just the slightest amount. "Are you… seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?" Nick asked with a dumbfounded look on his face. "I don't think that was even grammatically incorrect… It's been awhile since high school, but…"

"No, I -" Well, it was now or never. "There's a reason we can't be together."

Nick shook his head back and forth slowly, his eyes screwed shut as though seriously trying to control his temper. Which, perhaps he was. "Monroe…" Nick ground out.

"Nick… you just don't understand the circumstances."

"Are you with Rosalee?" Nick demanded in a tight voice as he pulled away to stand once more.

"No."

"Do you like her then?"

"What? No! Well, I do, but not, okay, well…" Monroe bumbled, feeling completely flustered. Thankfully Nick took pity on him when he clarified:

"I mean, are you in love with her? Do you want to be with _her_, or do you want to be with _me_? And before you think I'm being jealous, I'm not. And I'm not going to make you choose me over her. I'm not conceited…"

"Of course I want to be with you," Monroe quickly assured him. "I _love_ you. And I'm seriously sorry about ignoring you these last few months. I didn't mean to."

"I know. You already explained it to me. It's fine."

"I know, but I still feel really bad. And then to leave you alone for so long, with Deon. I should have been here…"

"Monroe, seriously. I don't care."

"But, Nick, I -"

"I really, _really_ don't care about what may or may not have happened. I don't want to hear about any more broken phones or any other stupid misunderstandings between us. Any of that. I seriously couldn't give one less of a fuck. I only care about right now.

"So please just tell me: Do you want me? Do you want this?" he asked while gesturing between them. "'Cause if you don't, just say it and it'll be over. I just need to know. I'm not going to wait forever for you."

"I _do _want to be with you, Nick," Monroe quickly said. "I _really _do, but…"

Nick raised a brow as he frowned. "But what? You keep saying that. It's really -" Nick frowned. "It's really annoying."

"I'm terrified of hurting you," Monroe finally confessed, his hand reaching out and taking a hold of Nick's smaller one again tightly.

Nick laughed. He actually laughed.

"How? Because you're a blutbad?" he asked with an amused smile. "Because we can be careful; that's not a problem. You've never intentionally hurt me before. Well, except for that time you jumped out of your window at me. I think you gave me a bruise, but that's a forgivable offense considering I was stalking you at the time."

"Nick, I'm not joking," Monroe said seriously, an edge of anger seeping into his voice.

"Neither am I. You're making a huge deal out of nothing. The whole time we've been friends, I can't think of a single instance where you've tried to seriously harm me. I can handle my own -"

"But you're weak!" Monroe blurted loudly as he lost complete control of himself for a moment. Nick's angry look had him quickly retracting his statement with a bumbling explanation of: "Only meaning you're not at full capacity. I don't want to take advantage of the situation."

"And what? Have your way with me?"

"No. I'm afraid I'll… hurt you, or worse… kill you," Monroe admitted in a stilted whisper.

"_Kill me_?" Nick asked, his eyes incredulous. "Why would you _kill _me? Why would that even be an option?" Nick was quiet for a moment. "What are we talking about right now…?"

"I can't be around humans, Nick."

"Why? …What's with this sudden change?"

"I can't _trust _myself."

When Nick didn't reply, Monroe continued:

"I've… I've killed people, Nick. A lot of people."

"Yeah, I know that. You more or less confessed that to me when we first met," the smaller man replied, though with some reservation. "But it was a long time ago, right? Back before you turned good. Turned Weider or whatever." When the blutbad wasn't quick to reassure him, Nick whispered, "Monroe…?"

"Mostly…"

"What do you mean by 'mostly?'" Nick repeated, his face growing dark. "You haven't been hunting again, have you?" For once Nick's voice reflected the serious nature of what was at hand.

"_No_! God, no. But… Nick," Monroe said, tugging Nick closer to him by the hand before immediately letting go as though scalded by the other's touch. As though Nick was somehow too pure for him.

"You need to understand," he practically begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "I can't always control who I am inside. I've been fighting, god have I been fighting, for my entire life. I try to be good, every day, but sometimes I slip. I lose control. I get so angry I can't keep the wolf in me locked away."

"What did you do?"

Monroe was on the verge of tears; the guilt consuming him was far too much for him to bear any longer. He needed to confess everything. Nick needed to know. _Deserved _to know.

"Nick, I'm so sorry," Monroe practically sobbed, his shoulders hunching as he buried his face in his hands. "You know how I corrected you and I said he 'wasn't' a good person? It's because… I swear to you, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to kill him. I just… after what he'd done to you, I couldn't stop myself. I tried to walk away. I tried to stop myself. But I just lost it. I swear to you it was an accident. But I guess that doesn't really make it better. I still killed him. And then I dumped the body without thinking. I should have burned it, or even at least buried it."

"Monroe -" Nick said quickly, trying to interrupt the other's pained confession. Monroe ignored him though.

"I bet by now the police have found it," he continued listlessly, the claws in his hands extending, digging into his scalp. "You need to get out of here before they somehow tie it to you."

"Monroe…"

Monroe got to his feet, his tone growing increasingly frantic as he began to pace back and forth, the look in his eyes wild.

"If you want me to take the fall, if you want me to do anything, just say it, Nick. I'll do it. Whatever you -"

"Monroe!" Nick yelled, grabbing hold of the blutbad by the lapels of his shirt. "If you're talking about Deon, which I'm pretty sure you are, he's not dead. You didn't kill him. He's still very much alive."

"You…" Monroe stopped. He started again, "You know about…"

"He was found, but he's alive. Mind you not in very good shape, but he's not dead."

"He's… not…?"

"No, he's perfectly fine. Okay, not fine," Nick corrected, "but he's not _dead_. That's something, right?" Nick asked with a small, nervous chuckle.

It crashed over both of them then, the knowledge that nothing could make the problem go away. Nick swallowed hard as he let go of Monroe's shirt before slumping onto the bed. He stared down at his hands listlessly.

"What are we going to do?" Monroe asked softly, almost afraid of how Nick might react. "Should we run? I have family outside of Vancouver. They live _way _out there, no one would come looking for us. I also know some Spanish. Not a ton, but enough to get by… If we wanted to go that route…" Monroe suggested.

"No," Nick said after a second, the look on his face pensive. "Honestly, I don't think there's anything they could tie to you. There was hardly any physical evidence lifted from his person and a lot of it was washed away when he was taken to the hospital. Lot of people were upset about that, let me tell you," he chuckled.

"And besides, we've gotten out of bigger jams before," Nick reminded him. "Sort of comes with the territory of being a Grimm."

"And being friends with a Grimm," Monroe added with a smile.

Nick stood from the bed and crossed the distance between them in two short stride, his feet stopping just between Monroe's. The younger man pressed a hand over Monroe's heart, his eyes peering up into warm brown ones.

"I think you mean, 'lover.'"

The meeting of their lips was once more chaste, loving, as Monroe curled his hands around the base of Nick's skull, his fingers threading through soft, dark hair. Nick's own hands chased up Monroe's belly, over his chest to wrap around his neck, drawing the blutbad further into him, guiding them back towards the bed. When Nick pulled back, his lips hovering just out of reach, he whispered,

"So is that a yes?"

"Yes?" Monroe repeated absently, not sure what he was agreeing or answering to, but determined to have another taste of the Grimm's parted lips. Nick chuckled.

"Good enough for me," he said as pushed Monroe to sit at the edge of the bed, crawling into his lap a second later. There wasn't a moment of rest between the feverous coupling of their lips, their kisses almost frantic in their execution. When Nick eventually winced from their haste, Monroe worried between stolen kisses:

"Should we be doing this? You should be resting."

"I've been waiting for five fucking months. I'm not waiting another one."

He had a point there.

"I'm not going to break," Nick reminded him when the blutbad hesitated. "I'm not made of china."

"But you're made of flesh and bone, and from my experience, that's not much better. You're still healing," Monroe said, his hand cupping the beaten and bruised side of Nick's face.

"I'll be fine as long as you don't grind my face into the mattress," Nick joked, his grin too wide. At Monroe's horrified look at the thought, Nick added in a teasing voice as he pushed Monroe backwards until he was flat on his back on the bed, Nick straddling his hips "Unless you want _me _to be on top…?"

Monroe breathed a hesitant laugh. "I've never…" he started to confess with embarrassment.

Nick smiled down at him. "Let's stick with what we know today, alright?" he teased, his finger hooking under the top button of Monroe's flannel shirt, tugging the taller man's face towards his own until their lips just barely brushed.

"But eventually," Nick promised him, his eyes darting between Monroe's and his slightly parted lips.

"God, I love you," Monroe murmured back, bumping his nose against the side of Nick's cheek, nuzzling along his jaw. "I'll do anything you want me to." _Anything to be with you. _"Hell, if you wanted me in a dress, I'd do that too," he added before he could think.

Nick pulled back and gave him a strange look. Monroe stared back in horror.

"I didn't…"

Nick laughed. "You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

"Uh, it's… I'm working on it?"

"You say that like it's a question." Nick bent his head to kiss Monroe. When their lips parted, Nick whispered, "Just remember in two years time when I ask you to don a Princess Leia outfit that _you _offered_. _Or a sexy nurse, I can't decide."

"Please don't make me put one of those on," Monroe muttered with mild horror. "I have _really _hairy legs. It'd just be gross. Not to mention I don't really have the figure for it…"

Nick winked at him. "You can shave."

"You know how many razors I'd have to go through? I'm like a Silverback Gorilla from the neck down."

"I've seen you naked," Nick reminded him. "You're not that bad. And I'm not going to make you shave." Monroe was about to thank him graciously when Nick added with a naughty little grin, "I'll make you wax."

Monroe didn't have a chance to confirm that Nick was only joking because Nick was kissing him deeply and Monroe didn't care enough about something as petty as body hair to pull himself away from Nick's lips. He'd been waiting months to make love to Nick again and there was no sense in prolonging the distance between their bodies when there was no need to.

Eventually Monroe flipped them, but he was still careful not to press too much weight into Nick, using his arms to hold himself up as he rutted hard against Nick's thinner body. Nick wrapped a leg around Monroe's back, his heel digging into the sensitive muscles of his lower back. It sent a strange sensation racing up his spine; normally that spot on his back caused intense pain when hit or pressed even too hard, yet somehow under Nick's ministrations it tingled pleasantly, sending electric sensations buzzing through his veins and straight to his groin. Nick used his other heel to push down hard on mattress, pressing him impossibly flush against the blutbad. If Monroe wasn't hard before, he was now.

He pulled himself back, letting Nick fall to the bed. He pushed and bunched the fabric of Nick's shirt up under his armpits, exposing his chest to the cool morning air. Immediately Nick's nipples hardened; Monroe couldn't help but brush a thumb over one of the flush, pink nubs, his lips following a moment later, laying kisses across his pectoral, down to the dip of his sternum. He followed an invisible line down Nick's chest, placing wet, suckling kisses along the way, all along the line of Nick's ribs until he reached the slight dip of the younger man's navel. The skin of Nick's lower belly was hot and sweaty against his chin. Suddenly, without warning, Nick burst into laughter, his whole body curling away from Monroe's touch.

"What?" Monroe asked as he sat up a little, a look of utter bewilderment passing across his face.

"Just… your beard," Nick breathed. Catching his meaning, Monroe ghosted his chin across Nick's abdomen again, causing the other man to jolt away from his touch, but his movements were halted by the large hands gripping tightly over his hips. Monroe held him firmly in place as he continued to torture the younger man with the soft scraping of his beard. Underneath his touch, Nick's body trembled, his skin prickling and the fine, dark hairs covering his lower body standing erect. Mindful of Nick's sensitivity, Monroe placed extra light kisses along the V of the younger man's lower abdomen, from one hip bone to the other, his nose poking through the dark patch of black hair peeking up from under the lip of his shorts.

"I didn't realize you were so sensitive," Monroe commented with a grin.

"You're killing me," Nick grunted as he bucked his hips once, the hard brush of his erection pressing against the blutbad's throat. "Stop torturing me," he growled, his lips pink, his eyes black with desire and the front of his shorts damp.

"Flip onto your front," Monroe directed. Nick didn't ask, just followed Monroe's orders and rolled onto his belly. Monroe shucked off his sweatpants and his shorts and crawled on top of the other man, his hands stroking up and down the other's sides, his nose buried deep in the gap between shoulder and neck.

"I love you, Nick," he murmured. "In case you didn't know that."

"Oh, I know," Nick chuckled lightly as he pressed up into the warm weight pressing down on him. When Monroe ground down with his hips, Nick pushed upwards, meeting him. All that separated them was a few thin layers of cotton.

"Take your shirt off," Nick commanded without hesitation. "The buttons are digging into my back."

"Oh, sorry," Monroe quickly apologized as he sat back on his heels to strip. Nick twisted under him just enough to reach back with one hand to help with the bottom few.

Before Monroe could shuck his flannel, Nick yanked him down hard by the collar of his t-shirt and kissed him deeply, his ability to wait worn clear through.

"Thought you wanted me naked," Monroe commented teasingly between the smack of their lips.

"I want you to fuck me. Whether you get naked or not is becoming increasingly irrelevant."

Monroe almost said something snide about 'big words' and 'sounding smart,' but he bit his tongue. There was a time and place, and neither of them were here. He stretched back out on top of Nick, intentionally pressing the length of his erection into the crease of Nick's ass, the fleshy, cotton-covered globes practically inviting him inside. He couldn't bring himself to wait any longer as he yanked Nick's shorts off, exposing two perfect globes of flesh.

"Oh, god," Monroe mumbled as he bent his head and kissed the top of each one. They were beautiful. Nick laughed at him.

"Right," Monroe said as he sat back again, reprimanding himself. "To the point."

"To the point," Nick echoed with a grin as he yanked his shirt off and threw it at the wall. Monroe quickly stripped off his remaining articles of clothing as Nick shimmied along the mattress on his belly to rummage through the side drawer. He pulled out a silver string of condoms, tossed it over his shoulder for Monroe to fumbling catch while still tangled in a shirt, before he located a sizable bottle of lube.

"You can do it this time, can't you?" Nick asked as he chucked that over his shoulder as well, Monroe catching it easily that time.

"Uh, yeah, I've had experience with _this _part," Monroe admitted with some embarrassment.

"Good," Nick said with a smile as he stretched out on his stomach again, his arms folded under his head and his shoulders relaxed. When Monroe hesitated, Nick jiggled his bum a bit and raised his hips.

Monroe was _so _thankful for Ben now; he'd had a bit of experience with Angelina in the past, true, but Ben had really been the helpful one. He'd taught him a thing or two about not only making this part satisfactory, but hot as hell.

"Oh, my god," Nick uttered as he twitched around Monroe's fingers after a moment. "I should have let you do this last time. Where the hell did you learn that?"

"Long story," Monroe admitted. "Long, _long _story."

Nick didn't ask, just chuckled as he shook his head back and forth; his laughter was cut off by another groan of pleasure.

When Monroe was positive Nick was decently ready, he leaned forward, his voice a deep, guttural noise against Nick's throat as he asked, "What do you want?" He rotated his fingers just the slightest amount. "Tell me what you want, Nick."

"I want _you _in me," Nick breathed, the side of his head pressed to the sheets, his body writhing against the bed with boiling desire. Monroe was trying his best to be gentle, but the heat was so silky sweet.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Monroe mumbled back breathlessly, reminding himself again of the fragility of the human body even though all he wanted to do was fuck deep into Nick's welcoming body.

"Just… shut up," Nick replied with irritation. "Like I said, I'm not a china doll. Now fuck me like a big boy or let me do the honors."

Monroe couldn't argue with that, he reasoned. From the glassy look in his partner's eyes, he knew Nick wanted it. Whole heartedly.

Monroe helped Nick to his knees, easily sliding in behind him, the other's legs curled around his.

"My word's 'cornucopia,'" Nick grunted as Monroe started to ease his way in.

"'C-cornucopia?'" Monroe balked as he stopped pressing forward, the absurdity of the word giving him pause.

"Yeah. My safety word?" Nick clarified with some hesitation. "You know what that is, right? I know last time, we-"

"I know what you meant," Monroe said quickly, successfully interrupting him. "But… Okay," he chuckled as he continued, his hips pressing forward, Nick's body practically sucking him in. He shook his head slightly as he breathed out a laugh against Nick's neck. "Whatever you say, though I'll never look at traditional Thanksgiving the same way again, thank you."

"Good," Nick breathed, already starting to feel full. "Give you something to think about when you're eating with your parents."

"'Cause this is what I want to be thinking about when I'm sitting down to dinner with my folks," Monroe replied sarcastically as he bottomed out.

Nick clenched his internal muscles, causing Monroe to grunt while he said knowingly, "I think so. It'll remind you to hurry up and come back home."

"Oh, you'll be going with me," the blutbad promised, "so don't think you can get out of any awkward family dinners."

When Nick didn't immediately reply, Monroe felt nervous hesitation. _Too soon, _he chastised himself. They'd only just become lovers. Did he really need to bring family into the equation so soon?

_Just because he wasn't freaked out about the whole 'attempted murder' thing doesn't mean he wants to meet your parents, you idiot!_

His internal, flailing dialogue was interrupted by Nick saying softly, "That'd be great, but maybe we should try for Christmas instead since Thanksgiving is…" Nick held up his hand, his whole body shuddering around Monroe as he tried to concentrate on counting, his hips held remarkably still. Monroe buried his nose in Nick's neck, his arms wound around the detective's chest as he tried to keep his excitable body from moving as well.

Nick glanced back at him, his lips pink and swollen, his face flush as he held up four fingers. "What am I thinking?" Nick murmured, grinning. "It's Thursday. That's four days from now."

"Gotta call my mom," Monroe grunted, his hips pulsing forward suddenly. Nick pressed back into him as he started them off on a rhythm.

"Hope you don't mean right now," Nick joked.

"Oh, god no," Monroe replied with horror. "Maybe tomorrow. Got my arms full, currently."

Nick looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, or something base, but he just smiled sweetly and tipped his chin up for a kiss. Still careful of Nick's broken nose, Monroe kissed him deeply, Nick's hair gripped tightly in his fist as he smoothed his other hand over the lean, well defined muscles of Nick's neck.

Monroe didn't want this moment to end; he wanted to make love to Nick for hours, but he knew he wasn't physically capable of it. With Ben he'd done several rounds, but his age was beginning to catch up with him. Thank god for his Blutbaden stamina or he'd have to call it quits after just two. Even still, he didn't want his release to come quite yet.

He pulled back a hair as he reached a hand down between their bodies, his fingers immediately tightening around himself, willing his body to hold out longer.

"Hold up," Monroe grunted as he pulled himself entirely away from Nick, a slick, popping noise following his movement. Nick twisted to look back at him, a troubled look on his face. When he glanced down and saw what Monroe was doing, he seemed to understand him immediately and copied the older man's actions.

"I want this to last," Monroe explain as he answered the question Nick hadn't quite asked. "And I want to look at you. At least when we finish."

Nick ducked forward quickly to press his mouth over Monroe's, wordlessly agreeing. They kneeled in front of each other for a moment as they willed their bodies to calm down a bit. Stave off the impending climax.

"Okay, I think I'm good," Nick said as he wound a finger in a curl just under Monroe's ear. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Monroe replied as he leaned forward, his arms suspended in the air, about to guide Nick back onto the bed. Something playful flickered in the air between them before two hands shoved Monroe hard against the chest, knocking him flat onto his back, the air rushing out of his lungs momentarily. A different sort of fire ignited behind Nick's eyes as he crawled onto Monroe's downed body, his knees straddling the older man's hips and a wide, wild grin against his lips.

"Not so fast, buddy," Nick growled good-naturedly, his smirk growing as his mouth hovered teasingly close, never quite meeting the other's.

Nick grabbed Monroe by the wrists and held them firmly against the mattress.

"You're so hot," Monroe found himself saying. He'd planned on saying something else, commenting on the change of position, but it'd slipped out instead. Not that it mattered. It was completely true.

A look of surprise crossed Nick's features as though he'd somehow forgotten that was indeed the case. His look softened for a moment as he bent his head to kiss Monroe's neck, down his chest and over his arms, ending just over the captured wrists.

"You're not so bad looking yourself," Nick reminded him. Monroe nearly burst into laughter, but he controlled himself.

"Must be if _you _will sleep with me. Twice. And only drunk for one of them."

Nick just laughed as he shook his head and rolled his eyes, easily letting go of his grip on the other's wrists as he scooted back in Monroe's lap. He adjusted himself without another word and before Monroe could say anything, Nick was moving. First in shallow thrusts; ones that gradually became deeper and Monroe felt his flesh _burn _under Nick's touch.

He was so glad he'd held out. This angle was far better for admiring Nick in all his glory. He was so utterly perfect, it was almost ridiculous. Even after everything that had happened, the weight fluctuations, the abuse, his body was impeccable and there was a definition to his muscles that could only be called godlike. And Monroe wanted nothing more than to worship this man with his lips and his hands, memorize every facet of the god moving above him. He found his eyes inexplicably drawn to a droplet of sweat sliding down the other's shuddering abs with each rhythmic movement. Nick caught him staring; the dark haired man breathed a fond laugh as he bent his head to capture Monroe's lips and readjust the older man's hands on his hips.

"You got me?" Nick asked vaguely. The blutbad didn't reply, just stared back with dazed eyes, so Nick just wrapped his hands firmly over the larger ones as he leaned his body away, angling his hips in a way that drove the Grimm over the edge, his head thrown back as he picked up the pace.

Monroe's eyes lolled back in his own head as he melted under the feeling of Nick moving around him, the sensations driving him deep into the mattress. Fucking Ben had been fantastic, but he couldn't even begin to describe this with words. There _were _no words. He would never know what Nick saw in him. The other man was so perfect, so beautiful, but he wouldn't challenge his good fortune again. He had Nick now. Nick _wanted _him, and that was good enough. He honestly didn't need any answers.

Monroe wanted this moment together to last forever, for it to never end, but his climax once again came too soon for his liking; Nick followed him several moments later. His body was regretful for the loss of heat as Nick pulled away, tossing his used condom into the waste basket beside the bed and shedding Monroe of his own as well. Nick bent once to kiss him before he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, reappearing a moment later with a warm washcloth.

When they were clean and redressed, they lay together in uncomfortable silence, Nick curled up at Monroe's side, his head just over the blutbad's collarbone. Monroe idly ran a hand through Nick's short, black hair, his other clutched over the smaller one on his chest. The heat of the room, of their lovemaking, dissipated quickly, a sudden chill settling over them.

"I don't know what to think," Nick finally confessed, the silence too heavy. His voice was no longer confident like it had been earlier; it was hardly above a whisper now. "There haven't been a lot of leads on Deon's case, but… I heard a warrant for his phone records was filed yesterday."

"For his phone?"

"He didn't call or text a lot of people. At least no one other than me, mostly."

Realization of what that meant dawned on Monroe. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier?

"I threw his phone in the river. I didn't know what else to do with it, not that it'd matter. It's not like they need the phone to trace it to me…" Nick said softly, his voice thick.

"By tomorrow, they'll know. And I didn't toss it, not before I used it the morning after you dumped him on the side of the road. To call work. Rosalee. The hospital. The same goddamned hospital he was in. I kept it for far too long after that, even _after _I knew what had happened to him. I kept it on my nightstand like a freaking idiot. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. It was all I had left of him.

"I hated him, yet…"

"It's over, isn't it?" Monroe choked out softly.

Nick shook his head once, a mask of resignation stretched across his face. "I'm the only connection they have. The only lead and the only one who could possibly have wanted him dead. And enough people could attest to the fact that I could do it, too. And I wanted to." Nick smiled once, mirthlessly. "I even threatened him that I would.

"But he's not dead," Nick reminded him. "They might try to pin it on me. But at best it was self-defense. I've documented all of my injuries, my hospital visits. I should be okay…

"Besides, I don't even own a dog," Nick finished, obviously referencing the wounds Monroe had inflicted on the abusive bastard.

Nick laughed, but Monroe could smell the stress beginning to pour off of the Grimm. He was lying. Monroe could only lean over and press a kiss to his temple.

"We need to leave. You can't stay here. You can't go to prison because of me."

"I can't, Monroe. This is just something I have to face. Even if I have to do it alone."

* * *

They stayed that way as the day ate away until the night, clutched in each other's arms only leaving the bed long enough to use the bathroom. Monroe knew they should be making the most of their last few hours together, but he couldn't rouse anything other than bittersweet emotion. Even Nick was so wrapped up in his own melancholy thoughts that they only could bring themselves to kiss when returning to bed. By the morning, Monroe would be long gone. It wasn't exactly what Monroe wanted to do - he wasn't even quite sure he _could _leave, but he couldn't stay there. He was almost positive there wasn't enough evidence to charge Nick with anything (how could Nick even create half the wounds? Like he said, he didn't even own a dog); maybe there wasn't even enough to charge Monroe with anything either (unless they searched his Beetle; the remnants of Deon's blood would certainly rouse suspicion), but Monroe was too much of a coward to face prison. He'd rather run, like he had been for years than to finally face up to his crimes like he should.

If he went in for this attempted murder, no doubt he'd wind up confessing to being the one behind other cold cases too and end up incriminating his entire family in the process. He'd be letting down far too many people if that happened. His family wouldn't hurt him for it, but he couldn't send his parents, his aunts and uncles, his cousins or his nieces and nephews to jail. He may be one of the only three Weider Blutbaden in his family, but he knew none of them hunted humans anymore. Killing wasn't _right,_ but it seemed unfair to punish them now that they'd all gone straight. He felt even _Nick, _whose duty it was to 'punish' wesen who killed humans,would hesitate.

* * *

When the morning finally came, Monroe couldn't bring himself to pull away. To leave Nick to his fate. He wasn't sure what he was going to do; force Nick to leave with him or face his own reality. Honestly his head was in such a fog all he could do was sit in miserable silence across from Nick as they picked unenthusiastically at the food set in front of them at the table. They hadn't talked much in the last sixteen hours, at least not about anything important or the case; just stupid things here and there. Petty, unimportant things like, 'Pass the remote,' or 'How many eggs do you want?'

Monroe glanced up at the man sitting across from him, watched the way Nick's eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at his lap listlessly. Nick claimed there wasn't enough to charge him with anything, but he must have been lying, or at least doubted the validity of his own words. Monroe inhaled deeply before he stretched his arm across the table top and rested a hand over Nick's, the detective glancing up in surprise. His face softened, but into another look of sadness. Just then the doorbell rang.

The look of sadness turned to desperation as the Grimm's eyes went wide with worry. No doubt it was the police come to place Nick under arrest and haul him in for questioning. Maybe they even had a warrant. Nick had cleaned up the blood, had tossed the couch, but blood had a funny way of soaking its way in deep and ending up in places hardly imaginable.

Slowly Nick stood from his chair; Monroe followed suit, not willing to let Nick face this alone.

"I don't know," Nick murmured distractedly, "Just hide, I guess."

Monroe didn't reply, he just crossed the few feet between them and rested a heavy, firm hand on Nick's shoulder. Nick's eyes searched his for a second, Monroe's hand slipping from its place and sliding down Nick's arm until he could wind their hands together. The younger man looked slightly confused as Monroe led them towards the front door, his face firm with determination and his decision to face his actions for once set.

When Monroe swung the door open, it wasn't the police on the other side, but Hank. From the pleased look on the older detective's face, he wasn't there to warn them to run.

"Uh, hey, Hank," Nick greeted with mild confusion as he let the older man in. Hank glanced between the two of them, his eyes darting once to their firmly clasped hands, before he nodded back.

"I came by to let you know the case has been dropped."

"_Dropped_?" Nick asked in disbelief as though hesitant to believe really it. "What…? _Why_?"

"The mother of the vic asked for the case to go no further. Considering the time and effort put into it so far, I'm thinking someone got a nice pay off."

Nick slid away from Monroe, their hands separating as Nick slumped against the foyer wall. He shook his head slowly, his eyes closed and one hand resting against the hall tree as though to ground himself.

"I certainly wouldn't put it past her considering what she paid me to keep quiet about…" Nick paused briefly, a look of utter embarrassment crossing his features. "They certainly have money at their disposal," he finished weakly.

Monroe stared at Nick in shock. Nick had been _paid _to keep quiet about the abuse? And Hank knew about it? How _much _did the older detective know? Obviously he'd known about the abuse from the beginning since it was Hank who had told Monroe in the first place, but he was a little surprised Nick was so open about the whole situation with his partner. Monroe wondered what _else _Hank knew. Nick had confessed the night before when they lay in bed together to having known Monroe was behind the attack from the get go. That being said, had Nick shared his suspicions with his partner as well? Or did Hank already know Monroe had something to do with it? He must at least _suspect it. _Hank had, more or less, asked Monroe to 'take care of it.' Maybe he felt it was partially his responsibility too; that if Monroe went down, he'd go down with him as the dirty cop pulling strings to protect his partner in the most violent way possible.

"I understand _how _Deon's family paid off the DA, but _why?_" Nick asked, startling Monroe from the thoughts swirling in his head. "But it doesn't make sense for them to just _drop it. _She seemed pretty adamant the last time we talked about finding whoever did this."

"Apparently," Hank said with a shrug and a grin, "they found traces of multiple different drugs in his bloodstream. He's got a history, like you said, and when the focus got turned onto former dealers, the mother flipped. I suppose she didn't want that part of his history to come to light. Probably tarnish their good name or some other bullshit. And it doesn't help that they think he's crazy now too. From what I heard, when the Oregon City police asked Deon who had attacked him, he managed to garble out, 'the wolfman.'"

The look on Hank's face was pure hilarity.

"So I'm willing to bet there were dogs involved, but the man's a lunatic. Nothing he says would be admissible in court. His brain, as far as I can tell, is completely shot to hell. _Mush. _

"Anyway," Hank said quickly when he noticed Nick and Monroe eyeing each other excitedly, both shifting on their feet and no longer paying Hank the slightest bit of attention. "You two probably want to celebrate, so I'll be off. So, I'll see you at work on Monday, Nick?"

"Yeah, of course. Thanks, man," Nick said as he gave Hank a big hug and patted him on the back. When they pulled apart, Hank laughed.

"What?" Nick asked with a look of mild confusion on his face.

"I drove all the way out here and you don't even hesitate to send me right back out the door again."

Nick at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Don't worry, I'm happy for you two," he said with an easy grin and a wink. He turned and looked over Nick's shoulder at the blutbad. "Go easy on him though. He's still healing."

"Hank!" Nick squawked indignantly, his face flushing red. His partner said nothing else, just continued to smirk as he pushed his way out the front door.

When it closed again, Monroe wasted no time in wrapping an arm around Nick's middle, pulling him in close until their fronts melded together, his nose just lightly grazing against the Grimm's jaw.

"You don't have to move to Canada, or Mexico, or wherever else you planned on running off to," Nick said with a smirk.

"And I don't have to force you to come with me." When Nick raised a brow, Monroe confessed, "You know I'd have to. I couldn't leave you here by yourself."

Nick smiled shyly, his eyes glancing away.

"I love you, Nick Burkhardt," Monroe said softly, his forehead pressed to the shorter man's. "You're insufferable sometimes, always getting yourself into trouble, but I absolutely adore you."

Nick laughed, his breath hot on Monroe's lips. When his eyes glanced up again, the look he shot Monroe was pure heat.

"I love you, too. And as much as I love _this_, can we please go back to bed? I may be still healing, but I think I've proved I'm up for anything."

"Hell yeah!" Monroe replied excitedly, completely shattering the gentle, intimate nature of the previous moment. They both laughed like teenagers as they practically tumbled up the stairs after each other towards the bedroom. Monroe stopped at the upstairs landing as he suddenly remembered something.

"Shit… I still have to call my mom."

Nick grabbed him hard by the lapels of his shirt, his eyes once more black as he pressed his hips into Monroe, completely hard. "It can wait."

FIN

* * *

A/N: This officially marks the end of the story, but there is an epilogue chapter. Like I've said before, it's not necessary to read (but it will be more light-hearted if that interests you and will wrap up some things), but feel free to check out at this point, lol. Anyway, hopefully the sex wasn't… too terrible D,: Actually, hopefully _the whole thing_ wasn't too terrible D: Sorry for the cop out ending, but honestly no one wanted this going on for another however-many chapters as Nick and Monroe find themselves evading the police, fleeing the country, getting hitched and raising chickens in the woods like two scary hermit-men, lol. If someone _does _want to read that, no, just no. lol!

Anyway, please, everyone, feel free to harass me about getting the epilogue chapter posted. I work better when I (constantly) feel accountable to people (and know I have something akin to deadlines, lol).

Anyway, thanks again for everyone's patience, favorites, follows and reviews. :D It means the world to me.


End file.
